Careful What You Wish For
by Silver Weasley
Summary: Thanks to a cursed wishing well and a bad case of I Must Protect Sammy, Dean Winchester is about to spend a week finding out seven ways his life could have been different. WIP, deancentric, ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

**Careful What You Wish For**

**(_exsisto curiosus quis vos opto_)**

_Summary:_

Thanks to a cursed wishing well and a bad case of I Must Protect Sammy, Dean Winchester is about to spend a week finding out seven ways his life could have been different. WIP, dean-centric

_Disclaimer_:

I claim only the words here and a few random OCs; all credit for the amazing Dean and Sam Winchester go to Kripke.

_Author's Note_:

Not my usual style but I'm enjoying it anyways. I hope you will too. I used an online Latin translator for the minimal Latin phrases in here, so sorry if it's wrong for those who might actually speak Latin itself. I suppose this is on the crack!fic side of things, but I also am trying to add as much depth to it as I can. On a random side note, this is officially THE longest prologue in the history of prologues (well, at least in the history of MY prologues).

I'm _hoping _for seven chapters, complete with prologue and epilogue. Key word: hoping. This is a complete WIP, so reviews, advice, and suggestions are gratefully accepted and needed!

_For Grace—_

_She's been regretting the day she got me into this fandom of sheer brilliance since day one. Trust me, she has to put up with a lot of fangirl squeeing from me._

_("So like there's these two hot guys who are brothers and they go around and kill ghosts and_

_stuff, and no seriously, you should totally watch it." )_

**ooo**

**_Prologue_**

Dean Winchester has seen and heard a lot of fucked-up shit—he is, after all a Winchester—but even for him, this is completley, unbelievably, dude-you-cannot-be-serious, what-sort-of-crack-are-you sniffing, frickin' weird.

"Are you _serious_?"

"Deadly," Sam says grimly, looking up at him resolutely.

"A cursed _wishing well?_" Dean runs a hand across his face, and winces because seriously. These days it's never a plain old poltergeist or textbook evil spirit he can shoot full of rock salt or burn the bones of; it's always something completley random, like a demigod with a sense of humor or a psycho clown-thing on a killing spree.

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I know."

"What—what does it _do? _Drown people or something?"

"No. It doesn't even do its victims physical harm, as far I can tell. Apparently it's really old and local legend says it was dug way back during the Salem witch trials—and that it was owned by a witch named Selenamaridra Jackson."

"…Dude, who names their kid _Selenamaridra_?"

"Focus on the bigger picture for me Dean," Sam says irritably. "It messes with people's heads or something because supposedly anyone who makes a wish at it goes schizo for a week."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like their personalities change every day for seven days," Sam explains. "Like, they talk about things that have never happened, don't remember certain people or details…just generally lose it. Then after the week is up, they're back to normal but seriously freaked out. Some commit suicide, others leave their husbands or wives …" Sam looks up. "It's really strange. They never explain why, never seem to quite recover. There've been seven documented cases in the last eight months alone—the doctors think it's a recurring brain virus or something weird like that. They even quarantined the town for a little while back in '98."

"A cursed wishing well?"

"Yep."

"A cursed wishing well that induces schizophrenia?"

"You got it."

"…I hate my life."

--

_Fairview, New York_

Dean likes little towns.

For one, everybody knows everybody, which means there're more sources for information. People are generally friendly and helpful, and if they aren't, they at least have a comfy motel or decent diner with a hot waitress or two.

Fairview's typical and homey in an almost cheesy way, nestled in rolling green hills with a quaint little main street and plenty of chatty locals.

When the boys had asked around, they'd discovered that five of the last "victims" were gone: three dead and two missing. The two remaining are teenagers, juniors at Fairview High, who'd apparently visited the wishing well on a dare and neither are talking much, or even at all. Thankfully, they have plenty of worried friends, all of whom responded almost as soon as Sam had caught them on their way out of school. They've taken the Winchesters to a little diner with some weird Greek name Dean can't pronounce and now the three of them are surveying Dean and Sam worriedly from across the table, each firmly gripping a mug of coffee.

"You say you're from the CDC?" a blonde called Kaye Nelson with grey eyes and a suspicious frown clarifies.

"We're investigating the situation," Sam explains calmly, smiling reassuringly. "We thought we'd start by talking to friends and family. Now, we understand that the virus seems linked to an old well?" Allie Thomas, tall with thick dark hair and freckles, shudders.

"That thing is so _creepy_," she confides. "I swear to God, it's what's driving people insane."

"So you think the well is doing it?" Dean asks, just to be sure. Lena Scott, who's got beaded braids, dark skin, and a pretty face, frowns at him.

"Damn straight we think it's the well," she says irritably. "Kristen and Derek were fine one day and the next they were completely different people. Kristen used to never shut up, now she doesn't say a word and she's lost so much weight they've got her in the hospital…and Derek just sits in a chair in his room and stares at nothing and babbles about some woman in green."

"Did they ever act like themselves again?" Sam asks, obviously puzzled. "Our records of previous victims indicate they all seemed to regain their true personalities again." Dean snorts. Sam can sure talk fancy when he has a mind to.

"Well," Kaye says uncertainly, "we knew when they were…you know, _back_, or whatever. Kristen called me about a week after she first got sick in tears and said she was so sorry, she didn't know what had happened."

"Derek came over and he just started freaking," Allie recalls, her face sad and worried. "Kept talking about missed opportunities and stuff, but he was…you know, _Derek_."

"What did they act like while they were…uh, psycho or whatever?" Dean asks and Sam elbows him sharply.

"They weren't _psycho,_" Kaye snaps defensively, while Allie scowls and Lena eyes him angrily asking,

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Don't mind Dr. Mitchell. He's just a trainee along for observation," Sam cuts in abruptly, trying to calm the waters. "What were your friends like when they were ill?" Lena snorts, but grins.

"You're the brains of this operation, eh?" she asks, and Sam bites back a smile as Dean makes an indignant noise. "Yeah, well, it was different every day, just like the others who caught this weird thing. One day Kristen came to school and she was…_smart._"

"What?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but Kris was always sort of ditzy, you know? She didn't ever apply herself and just kind of slacked off. But this one day, right, she comes in and she's answering all these questions right and paying attention in class and aceing tests." Kaye shakes her head. "And then the next day nobody saw her at all and at first her mom thought she'd been kidnapped because she kept seeing some weird guy hanging around her house, but then the next day she shows up with her hair dyed black and chains on her jeans."

"That must have been really upsetting," Sam says sympathetically. "What about Derek?"

"It was a lot like Kristen," Allie says simply, shrugging half-heartedly. "He and Kris were—are—dating and for a day he seemed positive that he was dating...well… me." She sighs sadly. "Then the next day he didn't talk to us at all, didn't seem to know any of us, and the day after that he just was…gone. Vanished without a trace."

Sam and Dean exchange puzzled glances.

"Do you think it would be possible to talk to either of them?" Dean asks.

"Were you even paying attention at all?" Lena demands. "Kristen is hooked up to machines in the hospital and won't even say a word to her own mother!"

"We're sorry," Sam says, "but it's extremely important the CDC gets the facts as first-hand as possible if we can work towards a diagnosis or cure."

"Derek talks," Kaye says softly. "You might be able to get something out of him."

"Kaye," Lena says sharply, narrowing her eyes at her friend.

"Everything he says these days is total ludicrous," Allie says firmly. "And I don't think he's quite up to visitors."

"What if he talks, though?" Kaye asks, folding her arms. "I mean, you guys are trying to stop this disease thing, right?"

"Of course," Sam says.

"This is our most important case right now," Dean adds helpfully, just 'cause he feels like he should say something that doesn't remotely piss off these kids/hurt their feelings/make them suspicious.

"I think they should talk to him," Kaye says to her friends. "Al, Len, come on. This might be able to help!"

"Well…" Lena says dubiously. "…I guess there's no harm…"

"Only if Derek's parents say it's okay," Allie says at once, looking a bit queasy. "He's really been worrying us all lately."

"We completley understand," Sam says sincerely.

They all sit there for a few awkward moments of silence until Dean pipes up,

"So we going to go see the kid or what?"

--

"I'm glad the CDC is finally looking into this," Mrs. Warren, Derek's mother says as she leads the Winchesters and Lena, Allie, and Kaye up the stairs. "I can't tell you how many times I've called. We're very concerned about the well."

"We hear there's a sort of a legend about it," Dean cuts in, trying to sound as sardonically amused as possible. "Something about a curse?"

"All nonsense," Mrs. Warren dismisses. "I'm certain there must be a parasite in the water or something of the sort; I've been saying that well should be destroyed for years now." She pauses at a door at the far end of the upstairs landing, knocking on it. "Derek?" she calls. "Derek, sweetie, you have visitors!"

No answer.

Briskly, Mrs. Warren swings the door open and ushers them all in, saying,

"Look, your friends are here! And these two nice gentlemen are from the CDC; they're going to see if they can figure out what's wrong with you."

Dean peers through the gloomy late afternoon light that fills the room and spots a broad shouldered and yet strangely gaunt-looking kid with red, curly hair sitting hunched in a chair by a bay window.

"He doesn't talk too much lately," Mrs. Warren whispers sadly to Sam and Dean as the three girls hurry forward to their friend, chattering with a forced sense of cheerfulness.

"We'll be as quick about all this as possible," Sam says. "I understand your son being interrogated is probably the last thing you want for him right now." Mrs. Warren sighs.

"If there's anything—_anything_—you can do for him," she says quietly, looking quite suddenly on the verge of tears, "then please. Ask all the questions you need to."

"Mrs. Warren, I promise you," Dean says, taking a step forward, "we are going to help your son. We'll find whatever it is that's made him this way and he'll be okay again, no matter what it takes. I _swear_." He's peering at her intently, his hand on her arm, and she looks up at him, hiccupping slightly. Dean can see Sam staring at him curiously from the corner of his eye, and promptly withdraws his hand, falling back a step and folding his arms self-consciously. _God Sam, I am begging you. No chick-flick moments. _

"Thank you," she offers quietly. Then, quickly composing herself, she turns to the girls and calls, "I could use a little help in the kitchen, you three. Would you mind helping me get Dr. Anderson and Dr. Mitchell some iced tea?"

"Sure, Mrs. Warren," Lena answers at once, glancing significantly at her friends. All of the women troop out of the room, Kaye closing the door softly behind them.

"Dean," Sam says in a low voice at once, turning to his older brother.

"Leave it, Sam," Dean sighs. "I just feel sorry for her, all right? I know what it's like to want to save your family."

There is a pause, and then Sam heaves a sigh of his own.

"Okay," Sam says at last, and then straightens up and transitions seamlessly into doctor mode. "Derek?" he asks, walking across the room so he can see the teen properly. "Derek, I'm Dr. Anderson. Dr. Mitchell and I just want to ask you a few questions, okay?"

Slowly, Derek looks up at them, his eyes hollow.

"Are you going to fix me?" he whispers plaintively.

"We're going to try," Sam says firmly, then gestures to a chair near Derek. "May I?" The kid shrugs and Sam sits, then jerks his head at Dean, who moves to sit in the other chair. "Derek, can you tell us about what happened to you?"

Derek swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and turns to look out the window.

"You won't believe me." His voice is barely more than a whisper. "Nobody will."

"Give us a whirl," Dean suggests, leaning forward. Derek shakes his head vehemently.

"No."

"Derek, we can't fix you if we don't know what's wrong with you," Sam says softly, his puppy dog eyes full of sympathy and kindness. "Just talk to us."

"I'm-I'm crazy," Derek says uncertainly, looking from Dean to Sam desperately. "Everybody says so. I hear Dad telling Mom they should check me into the psych ward…Kristen's nearly comatose…Allie thinks I'm a raving lunatic…" At this, Derek bites a lip and squinches his eyes shut, an attempt at warding off tears.

"We'll believe you, dude," Dean says seriously. "Honest. We know you're not crazy."

"How?" Derek demands.

"What, you think we don't see the connection with all of these cases?" Dean shoots back. "Anyone who makes a wish at the well gets sick." Derek eyes him.

"I thought Mom said you were doctors."

"Tell us about what happened to you," Sam implores, choosing to ignore Derek's comment. "We won't repeat what you say to us." Derek stares at them, and then his gaze drops.

"It was my fault," he says abruptly. "My idea."

"What?"

"Look, man," Derek says in faint annoyance, meeting Dean's curious eyes, "d'you wanna hear this or what?"

"Sorry. Go on."

"I dared Kris to go and make a wish at the well," Derek continues, "'cause she's always been scared of it, you know? It was just—it was stupid. We knew we weren't supposed to be there because of the…the others…but I thought it was all just a load of bull." He inhales shakily. "So she said she'd go, but only if I went too."

"And what happened then?" Sam prompts when Derek goes silent.

"I…well, Allie, Kaye, and Lena were hanging out with us that night. We were just…having a couple beers, telling ghost stories and stuff by the creek. It was so…so _normal._" His voice breaks and he catches himself, coughing loudly. "So after Kristen and I decided to go through with the dare, they said they'd wait for us. The creek is just down the hill from the well, so we went up there, and Kris walked over to the well and…well, I guess she made her wish. I was standing behind her…and the water was just so clear, you know? So beautiful. I couldn't help but wish something, too."

"Why?" Sam asks, now thoroughly engrossed. "Did you see something in it, hear something? A message, maybe?"

"No," Derek says, eyeing Sam suspiciously. "No…it just was nice. Made me think about stuff I wanted…"

"What'd you wish for?" Dean asks.

"I…" Derek stares at them, gulping. "Okay, you promise you won't tell?"

"Promise."

"I'd been thinking about breaking-up with Kris," he murmurs. "We're pretty different people and…I was wondering what it would have been like if I'd never gone out with her."

"That's it?" Dean snorts. "Kid, you're only…what, sixteen, seventeen? This isn't marriage we're talking about here."

"You don't understand," Derek says tightly. "She was my friend before she was my girlfriend. I've seen guys break her heart before and she doesn't deserve it." He shakes his head rapidly. "So, yeah, anyways, I guess that was my wish."

"And then what?" Sam asks.

"Well, nothing weird happened, so Kris and I headed back to our friends. We went home later that night and then…the Green Lady came to see me."

"The Green Lady?"

"Yes," Derek says faintly. "She…I don't really remember. She put her hand on my forehead and just…I don't know. But she did this—all of it."

"What did she do, Derek?" Sam is on the edge of his seat, frowning deeply, brow furrowed.

Derek shakes his head.

"She says I'm not supposed to tell," he says, clenching his hands. "I can't tell anyone. It's a burden I have to bear myself, she says."

"No, Derek, it isn't," Sam assures him. "We want to help. Please, let us."

"I can't tell you what I saw," Derek says in a panicked sort of voice. "I…I want to but I can't. I…I…" The color drains from his face and Derek suddenly chokes violently, gasping for air. "_She won't let me,_" he manages in a strangled voice, pain etched on his face.

"Okay, okay!" Dean says loudly, hand dropping to his gun in case things get really ugly. "Don't tell us, Derek. It's fine."

Immediately, the kid's color returns (what little of it he has left), and he exhales raggedly.

"You should go," he says abruptly. "You—you should…nobody can help me, all right? Nobody." Sam exchanges a glance with Dean, and they both stand.

"We'll help you, Derek," Sam says, laying a comforting hand on the kid's shoulder. "I promise."

In response, Derek shudders.

--

"Dean, this is a stupid idea," Sam says for the hundredth time. They're trudging up the hill, guns shouldered, and Dean has a plan.

"This is the only way," Dean says. "Sam, this is a textbook curse, okay? The Green Lady is obviously the one who cast it—we can bargain with her when her spirit appears. Either that or shoot her full of rock salt."

"I just think we should be a little more logical about this," Sam says. "Maybe if we bless the water in the well, you know, make it holy…"

"That won't clear up a curse," Dean says simply. "There are only two ways to get rid of it: setting the cursed item on fire or finding the one who cast the curse and learning from them how to break it. I dunno how many times you've tried to torch a frigging _well_, Sammy, but something tells me it might be harder than it looks."

"All right, all right," Sam pants as they reach the top of the hill and the infamous wishing well comes into sight. "Look, how do we know this won't just backfire on us?"

"We don't. This is all I got, Sam, all right? Maybe this Green Lady will be reasonable."

"Yeah, screwing people up for life when they make one freaking wish at a stupid well. That just screams _reasonable _and _willing to bargain _to me."

"Shut up, loser." Dean turns abruptly, and stares at the wishing well. It looks like…well, like a wishing well, straight out of a Disney movie. It's perfectly circular, made of solid stones and wood that don't seem remotely weathered (another sign of supernatural activity). There's no bucket, nor is there a pulley for it—just a slight wooden overhang over the well. Cautiously, the Winchesters make their way over to it, Dean tightening his grip on his gun more for comfort than anything.

"What's this say here?" Predictably, Sam is surveying the aforementioned overhang. Curling letters are carved into the wood, spelling out a Latin phrase. "_Exsisto curiosus quis vos opto,_" Sam reads aloud. Dean turns to stare at it, too.

"Careful what you wish for," he translates quietly, squinting at it.

"Exactly," Sam agrees. "Jesus, Dean." He sighs wearily, running a hand through his shaggy locks. "You don't have to do this, man."

"Yes I do," Dean says stubbornly. "Look, you already deal with visions and crap, okay? Supposing this goes South—"

"Which you keep promising won't happen," Sam cuts in.

"—I'll deal with it," Dean finishes. "Dude, I'm the big brother here, okay? No way I'm letting you get yourself cursed."

"Just because I'm younger than you doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to look out for you, too," Sam protests. "I'm not five anymore."

"So?" Dean scowls. "I can't do much to keep you safe, Sammy," he says in a completley different tone, serious and grave. "Let me do this much, okay? You'd be doing me a favor." Sam rolls his eyes, but looks a little less reluctant.

"You know you shouldn't worry about me."

"Tough," Dean snaps. "I'll always worry about you. Now, before we start braiding each other's hair and shit, I think I'll go deal with a curse."

"Fine," Sam retorts. "Just…just be careful, man."

"I'm always careful," Dean says, and with that, he takes a few steps closer to the well, adding, "Don't get near the water, got it? The last thing we need is for _both _of us to get nailed."

"Okay," Sam agrees reluctantly, and walks a few paces in the opposite direction of the well, even going so far as to sit down cross-legged with his back to it. Dean has thought long and hard about what he'll wish for, and he's already decided that he'll wish for the curse to be over. A back-up plan, he thinks triumphantly, in case the whole bargaining thing doesn't work out right.

Satisfied, he looks down at the cool, dark water, ready to go.

The water _is _beautiful, just as Derek described. It's clear, looks like it'd be great for a drink on a hot day—and it's also absolutely mesmerizing.

He can feel something taking hold of him from the minute he sees the water, a strange urge compelling him to spill his deepest secrets.

It leads Dean to thinking. What would he wish for, he wonders, if he wasn't going to wish for the curse to end? For Mom and Dad to be alive again? For Sammy to be safe? For the Demon to die?

_What do you want most, Dean? _a voice in the back of his head whispers. _More than anything in the world? _

All his life, Dean Winchester has wanted what's best for his dad, for Sammy. He's wanted them to be safe, them to be happy—because without them, Dean is just…well, some punk with an attitude problem. Some lonely, bitter guy in a bar too scared he'll get close to somebody, a player who has a million one night stands because it's easier than getting attached. A loser. Pathetic. Alone.

Without them, Dean is nothing.

_What's best for YOU, Dean? _the voice prompts. _Be selfish. Just this once._

When it happens, the force of it, his wholehearted belief in it, is so strong that even Dean himself is shocked.

_I wish I didn't have this life, _Dean thinks bitterly. _I wish I was normal. _

He blinks. Whoa, where did _that _come from?

As Dean stares down into the well, water that was (up until this moment) perfectly still ripples across his reflection's worried face.

"Shit," he hisses. "_Shit!"_

"Dean?" Sam calls, standing up. "What's the matter?"

"Dammit, she got me!" Dean yells angrily, stalking away from the well, hand tightening on his gun again.

"What?!"

"I was gonna wish for the curse to be over!" Dean roars. "And dammit, the thing was so strong, I got sucked in."

"You _didn't _wish for it? You had no control over it?"

"No! That damn Green Lady Selena-what's-her-face is gonna _pay_, that's for sure."

"Well, we'll wait until tonight and see," Sam says anxiously, peering at his brother. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I…I just can't believe I thought of _that_. Of…of all the things to wish for…" Dean trails off, looking worried.

"What _did _you wish for, man?" Sam asks.

"If I told you, Sammy," Dean says, looking up at his younger brother bitterly, "then it might not come true."

--

Dean awakes with a start at 11:45 pm and sees a dark-skinned woman in deep green robes standing beside his bed, a crafty smile playing across her unearthly beautiful features.

"Hello, Dean Winchester," she says in lilting tones. "I believe you made a wish."

"Dammit," Dean mutters, scrambling out of bed and lunging for his gun. "Sammy—!"

"Now, now, Dean," the Green Lady breathes, moving towards him, "it's just you and me. Only you can see and hear me." Dean's gaze falls to his sleeping brother.

"Okay, look, Selenamaridra," Dean says irritably, "I'm not in the mood for games."

"You know my true name," she says, looking coldly amused. "Very nice, Master Winchester."

"I know about the curse, and the entire reason I made a wish was so that I could stop you," Dean announces, ignoring her. "So you can cut the 'Master Winchester' crap, all right?"

"Why should I be stopped?" The woman holds out slender hands, palms turned upwards. "I do no one harm."

"Like hell you don't," Dean snaps. "The aftereffects of the curse drive them to suicide or insanity, you know that? This afternoon, you were strangling Derek all because he wanted to tell Sam and me about what happened to him. You don't call _that _harm?"

"I call it intervention," Selenamaridra says, smile unwavering. "The aftereffects are none of my affair, and none of yours, either. Derek is bound by the wish he made to speak of what happened to him to no one until he breaks the curse, just as you shall be."

"Wait just a minute," Dean says, scowling. "I'm here to make a bargain."

"It's not that kind of curse, Dean," Selenamaridra tells him firmly. "Lie back."

"What?"

"Do as I say," she directs, placing a delicate hand upon his shoulder. "_Lie. Back."_

It's as though a great weight is pressing against him, and Dean is forced back down onto his pillows, despite his struggle.

"You wish that you were normal," Selenamaridra says, "and I understand. You suffer much pain, much more than the average mortal suffers. You have great power, and with it, great responsibility."

"Like Spiderman," Dean quips.

"You are no superhero," the strange woman (spirit?) dismisses. "Only those whose deepest desires consume them are compelled to wish at my well. The rest of the fools make their petty wishes off their own ridiculous free will."

"What are you going to do to me?" Despite himself, Dean is a little scared. He's helpless, pinned to his bed, and his sleeping little brother is oblivious to the drama unfolding in their tiny little motel room. He's alone, and it doesn't look like this is going to be as simple as he hoped.

"Grant you your wish," Selenamaridra offers simply.

"I don't want it granted," Dean says. "I just want you to end your curse so people can get on with their lives."

"I cannot end it." The witch shakes her pretty head. "You will sever all bonds with it when you break it yourself."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"It is not difficult," Selenamaridra chuckles. "It is simply a matter of opening one's eyes. Waking up and smelling the pumpkin juice, my mother used to say."

"Will Sam be okay?" Dean asks softly.

"I see only your pending future," the witch responds. "And that information I cannot tell even you. Concerning your wish: you will get your normal life, Dean. One different version of it for seven days."

"But—"

"This will teach you, I think," Selenamaridra interrupts, "to be careful what you wish for."

She lays a hand on his brow, and though his instinct is to protest, to fight, a heavy wave of drowsiness descends on him, and it is as though he is sinking, sinking, into a black abyss.

He reaches out an arm futilely to stop himself, to fight the curse. He promised Mrs. Warren he'd help, promised his brother this wouldn't go wrong. _Oh, God, Sam_. What if Dean is a complete nutcase for the next week? What if one of his counterparts hurts Sam or scares him…and what if when Dean gets back, he'll be too screwed up from what he's seen to ever go back to his old self again?

Unbidden, his father's face swims before him.

_Always protect your brother, Dean. Always keep him safe. _

"Sammy," Dean manages to whisper, and then the darkness seems to swallow him whole.


	2. Life As It Should Be

_Author's Note: _

Thanks to everybody who's reviewed so far! I really appreciate the great feedback you've given me, and it's helped inspired me to write another chapter. This is insanely long, even longer than the Uber-Long Prologue of Doom. It seems like when I get to writing for this story, I don't know when to quit, so I apologize if it's too rambly. I had a lot of fun with this one and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. There's a little more strong language in this chapter than there was in the previous one, but this is a very ticked-off Dean Winchester we're talking about, so I don't think it should come as a huge shock. As always, please drop me a line and let me know what you think!

**_ooo_**

**Day One:**

_**Life As It Should Be**_

"_Don't be scared."_

_  
Dean turns to look at Selenamaridra, who's standing with the wind blowing through her hair on the other side of the wishing well._

"_What's going to happen to me?"_

"_First, you'll see life the way you wish it had been with your family," she says quietly. "It will probably hurt."_

"_Then I don't want to see it," Dean snaps. "I don't understand what the point of this is. I'll do—I'll do anything to break this curse, okay? What is it you want, huh?"_

"_I have already told you." She lifts her face to the sun, eyes closed. "You break the curse, not I."_

"_That's a load of bull sh—"_

_Selenamaridra holds up a finger, cocking her head as though listening._

"_No, not yet," she decides. "Not quite."_

_Dean sighs angrily, looking down into the wishing well, trailing his fingers through the cool water. _

"_Hey, can I ask you something?"_

"_I suppose," she agrees._

"_You got a nickname or anything? No offense, but your name's kind of a mouthful, and I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of each other."_

"_Yes, we shall see each other over the next week." The witch smiles. "You may call me Selena."_

"_Okay."_

_Selena comes to Dean now, lifts a hand to his cheek. _

"_You are very brave," she says solemnly, large green eyes fixed on his. "Perhaps this will not break you as it has the others."_

"_It won't," Dean says, but even he can't miss the hitch in his breath. "Nothing scares me." Selena laughs prettily now._

"_Everybody fears something," she tells him conspiratorially. "Even me."_

"_Why did you—"_

"_Wait." She pauses, listening again, and then a slow smile spreads across her face. "Ah, yes. She is coming."  
_

"_Who?"_

"_Don't be scared," Selena whispers, and before he can demand answers, she takes a step backwards and disappears. _

--

"Dean!"

"Mmph," he mutters into his pillow. "One more minute, please God, I'm begging you."

"You're such a loser," sighs a voice. "God, you've been home, what—a day? How late were you _out _last night?"

"I…I don't know," Dean says uncertainly, trying to remember exactly what he'd been up to. Something about a job, right? Let's see, he remembers Derek…walking up the hill…the wishing well…

Dammit, the _wishing well_. Panicked, he sits bolt upright.

"Please, please tell me you're Sam," he says, refusing to open his eyes. "_Please _tell me that bitch didn't do anything to me."

"Do I sound like Sam, dumbass?"

"Um…" Dean pauses to consider. The voice sounds a lot higher than Sam's, come to think of it. Sort of feminine and pretty, definitely a girl's voice. "…No."

"Would you hurry it up, then? Mom says Sam already ate most of the pancakes and Simon's going to finish them if you're not careful."

Dean's eyes fly open.

_Mom?_

"Mom…but…" He looks around wildly, noting quickly that he's in a room, painted blue, with a couple of beds and a few Metallica posters. Standing right beside him is a very pissed-off looking teenage girl with French-braided blonde hair, green eyes, freckles and her hands on her hips.

"What the—who the hell are _you?_" It's out of his mouth before he pauses to think how it might sound to her. Hey, you try waking up in a strange bed in a strange place with a strange girl standing next to you and see how well you handle it.

"Are you high?" the girl demands, looking, if possible, even more annoyed. "Dude, I am so not in the mood for any of your dumb jokes."

"I'm not high," Dean says, highly affronted. "Just…uh, would you mind refreshing my memory?" He attempts a charming smile, silently praying she'll play along.

"I'm Grace," she says, squinting at him. Apparently his attempt to look calm and composed isn't going over very well, because she now looks faintly concerned. "Gracie?" she tries. When he doesn't respond she adds, "Dean, I'm your _sister_, remember?"

"I…" He should be able to handle this, he totally should. He shouldn't be staring at her, shell-shocked, with his mouth hanging open, and his throat shouldn't be tightening and his eyes shouldn't be filling with tears and he shouldn't want to scream his head off.

_She looks just like Mom_, is all he can think as he stares at the confused girl who is the little sister he never had. _She's beautiful._

"Dean?" Now she's dropped to her knees, worry and confusion etched on her face. "Dean, should I get Mom or Dad? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he manages. "No...I'm okay, really."

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Grace says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Dean repeats. "Just a bad dream. Sorry, I'm out of it."

Grace squints at him.

"Sam said you had a headache last night before you ditched him at the bar."

"Right," Dean agrees hastily.

"How hung-over _are _you?"

"I'm not," Dean says simply. "Sorry for scaring you or whatever."

Grace eyes him suspiciously before someone from downstairs screams her name, then Dean's.

"Okay, we better hurry," she announces. "Come on."

Dean hesitantly climbs out of bed, surveying his sister. She's _little_, at least compared to him, only about five foot four, and skinny.

"Hey Grace?" he asks quietly, stopping her as she heads to the door.

"What now?"

"Can I have a hug?" he asks, trying to grin. "I just…I missed you, you know?" He holds his breath, wondering if this will creep Grace out or something, but she grins willingly and steps quickly into his embrace.

"I missed you, too, big brother," she announces. "Next time, don't stay away so long."

Dean swallows, trying to loosen the lump in his throat.

"I won't," he whispers.

--

"Hey, Dean."

Dean has already steeled himself for this, knows that this is part of the curse and if he doesn't want to scare his family he can't freak out, but seeing your father come back from the dead is just _slightly _disconcerting.

"Hey…hey, Dad," Dean manages weakly, ignoring the strange look Grace shoots him as they head downstairs. "Anyone save me pancakes?"

"Of course," Dad says, grinning broadly. "Oh, and don't forget—you promised you'd pick up the suits with me this morning."

"Sure thing," Dean agrees, not quite sure what Dad's talking about. "I remember."

"Well, you best get a move on. Simon's stuffing his face; all the food will be gone if you don't hurry it up."

"So I hear," Dean mutters, briefly wondering who Simon is. "Well, let me know when you want to, um, go get the suits."

"Will do, son." And with that, John Winchester continues up the stairs.

"So, speaking of Simon," Dean says to Grace as the go down a long hall. "How's the kid been?"

_Please let him be a kid._

"As bratty as ever," Grace sighs. "Seriously, you're so lucky you don't have to put up with him twenty-four/seven."

"You were no picnic at that age either, princess," Dean says, just 'cause it sounds like something he would say to his little sister (if he ever had one).

"I was better than _Sam_," Grace says defensively. "Hell, even _Simon _is better than Sam."

"Talking about me behind my back?" Dean turns, and there's Sam, looking the same as he ever has—only…only happy. No worry lines, no darkness in his eyes, no hunch to his shoulders. He looks scrawnier, though—not like he's skinny, exactly…just that he's not as muscled as usual. He's also wearing a pair of thin glasses, and looks slightly more geeky than Dean remembers.

"You wish, Sammy," Grace says, smirking in all too familiar way. "Not everything is about _you_, you know."

"Shut it, twerp," Sam directs, ruffling his little sister's hair affectionately. "The pancakes are almost gone," he adds to Dean on a side-note. "Dude, how late were you out last night?"

"He doesn't remember," Grace answers. "I asked already."

"Just so long as you don't pull that tonight," Sam says, grinning. "You still have a speech to make, you know. You promised."

"Oh, don't worry," Dean says, frantically wondering just what the hell is supposed to happen tonight. "I'll be there."

"Uh, that's good," Sam says, looking slightly puzzled.

"Gracie, go save me some pancakes, will you?" Dean asks. "I'll be right there. Don't let Simon eat 'em all."

"What am I, your slave?" Grace demands in typical whiny-teenage-girl fashion but heads into the kitchen nonetheless.

"Sam," Dean says quickly, "I have to talk to you."

"All right," Sam agrees, looking concerned. "Hey, man, are you okay? You don't look so good."

"I'm fine." Dean runs a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. "Sam, you're a lawyer, right?"

"Just about," Sam says, raising a brow. "Oh, God, Dean. What did you do?"

"Nothing," says Dean hastily. "Just, um…" God, how do you explain something like this to a person who, by the look of things, doesn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural? How do you explain that you have no idea where you are or what you're supposed to do and that Mom and Dad are dead where you come from and you don't have any siblings but Sam?

That's the thing, Dean realizes at once. You _don't_.

"Sam?" Both men glance up, and Dean almost passes out from pure shock, though a part of his brain wonders why anything at all should surprise him anymore. Jessica Moore is standing in the doorway wearing pajamas, her hair piled on top of her head. "Do you want to take a walk before I head out?"

"Sure," Sam agrees, grinning, before he leans down to kiss her. "I thought the rule was the groom doesn't get to see the bride before the wedding."

"Crappy rule," Jess announces. "Don't worry, I'll be gone most of the day."

_Okay, I officially can't handle this. _

"Uh, well," Dean says loudly, "I better go eat my pancakes before Simon…just, uh, yeah." He stomps off towards the open door Grace went through minutes before, attempting to ignore Jess's whispered,

"What's _his _problem?"

The kitchen is large and sunny with a round table in the middle. Grace is already sitting down, plate piled high with pancakes, sleepily pouring herself a glass of milk. Across from her, a kid with Dad's dark hair and round glasses is pouring over a book, absentmindedly munching on a piece of bacon.

Grace nods to a plate beside her.

"Only three left," she says. "Simon's a pig."

"Shut up," the kid directs absentmindedly, taking a gulp of orange juice. "I'm a growing boy. I need sustenance." He glances up at Dean, and when Dean gets a good look at him it's a little disconcerting. More than he or Sam ever did, Simon looks like a miniature version of Dad, though the glasses throw him off a little. "What's up?"

"Not much," Dean says casually, reaching for the syrup pitcher and missing as he pretends not to stare at this new little brother of his. "So…where's Mom?"

"She went to get dressed." Simon takes another swig of juice. "You ready for tonight?'

"The wedding?" Dean asks tentatively, just to be sure he's completely informed.

"Yeah. I'm glad you're best man—I'd hate to get up in front of all those people," Simon says, looking nauseous at the thought.

"Yeah, well, I got no problem with public speaking," Dean lies.

"Since when?" Grace snorts. "You couldn't even make a presentation on fire safety to third graders without nearly puking."

"I'm never going to live that one down," Dean sighs dramatically, mentally raising an eyebrow. _What am I doing hanging around third graders?_

"Oh, good," says a voice from behind him, "you're up!" Dean turns, and this is the strangest, most heartbreaking encounter yet.

"Hi, Mom," Dean says quietly, and before he can stop them, the tears spring to his eyes again. She looks almost exactly the same as he remembers, though her face has a few more lines and her hair is a little shorter. She's putting in an earring, smiling at him as she heads toward the kitchen table.

"I hear you came in late," she adds, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. Dean tries not to throw his arms around her or freak out or cry or run from the room, and he knows he must not be doing a very good job of hiding it when he sees both Grace and Simon staring at him.

"Yeah," Dean finally manages, reaching an arm up so he can hug his mother, smell her hair. He brushes a quick kiss on her cheek, and takes the opportunity to run the back of his hand across his eyes. "Sorry. I had, you know, stuff to take care of."

Grace snorts dubiously, but Mom smiles sunnily.

"I know," she says. "You had a lot of catching up to do with your friends. You've been in Texas so long it's a wonder you remembered where Kansas was at all."

"Yep," Dean says, and abruptly stands. "Uh, hey—could someone refresh my memory on where the bathroom is?" Grace, Simon, and his mother all stare at him, and now Grace is looking really, really weirded-out.

"Down the hall, two doors to the left," Simon answers at last, raising a brow.

Dean hurries out of the kitchen before any of them can say anything else.

He finds the bathroom, shuts the door quietly, then slides down the wall and sits on the floor, knees to his chest, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes.

He can't stop his shoulders from shaking, can't stop a strangled sob. This, he thinks, is worse than Dad dying, worse than Mom dying.

This is like getting them back only to know they'll die again.

They're there—right _there—_alive, breathing, with two extra kids, leading a charmed life full of weddings and pancakes for breakfast and normalcy and it's _not fucking fair._

_Get a hold of yourself, man, _Dean thinks angrily as he tries to stifle the second sob that rises in his throat. _This is just another job, all right? You endure it. You try to kill the evil bastard that's causing the chaos. You don't fucking fall apart, you make do._

"Shit," he mumbles, slamming a closed fist down onto the tile floor. "Okay. Okay, this is completley cool, I can handle this." He scrambles to his feet, starts pacing, talking aloud to calm himself down. "You're cool, Winchester. This just lasts one day, right? One day of this and you'll move on to something else and these people will never have known you were here. Just—just keep your distance, don't screw it up, and you'll be fine." Abruptly, the image of his mother leaning down and kissing him on the cheek for the first time since he was four flashes through his mind, and he turns, slamming a fist into the wall much the same way he did the floor.

"God_dammit_," Dean mutters, voice breaking as he leans his head against the wall, yet another sob escaping him despite his furious attempts to fight down the worry and pain. "I am so fucking screwed."

"Couldn't agree more," says a voice from behind him, a sort of familiar voice that's quavering a bit. Dean spins around sharply to see Grace standing behind him, arms folded, a worried frown plastered across her face.

"What—I…um, I was just—" Dean gestures helplessly, sniffing mightily and trying to look normal. (_Now if only I knew what normal is supposed to look like.) _"How much did you see?" he says at last, eyeing his sister warily.

"I followed you," she says, taking a step forward. "I was worried and…well, then I heard you, um, crying." Dean scowls and turns away.

"I wasn't crying."

"For God's sake, Dean, don't pull the macho card on me." Grace takes another step forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "I knocked on the door and when you didn't answer, I opened it and…you were sort of talking to yourself."

"Oh, that." Dean coughs. "Uh…didn't I tell you? I'm in a play and I was just, you know, practicing my lines and shit."

"You told me acting is girly."

"Well, I lied."

"Seems like you're doing a lot of lying around here lately," Grace snaps. "Like not remembering what time you came home last night and the public speaking thing."

"I'm just tired, Grace."

"And now you're doing it again!" Grace cries. "Dean, this is your first visit in a year and a half and you're already pulling away again? What the hell is _wrong _with you—you act like you don't even remember us or this house or…" She folds her arms again, looking hurt and small. _Great, _Dean thinks sarcastically as she stares up at him with big, woeful eyes. _She and Sam both have the freaking Puppy Dog Gaze down pat. _

"I'm sorry," Dean says, though he doesn't quite understand what he's apologizing for. "I'm just not myself today, okay?"

"That's for sure." Grace pauses, narrowing her eyes so that the Puppy Dog Gaze transforms into one that looks more like Dad's patented Glare of Doom. "I don't understand. Nobody knows you better than me," she says softly.

"Look, I should probably go," Dean says awkwardly, trying to sidestep her. "I can't—I'll be just the way you remember me tomorrow, okay? Promise."

"You need to be the way I remember you _tonight_," Grace says angrily, and she takes two steps forward and slams the bathroom door. "You're the best man in your brother's wedding and Sam—he needs you, Dean, okay?"

"Sammy always needs me," Dean says, exasperation rearing its ugly head. "What else is new?"

"Don't pull that selfish bastard crap on me again, Dean Winchester." Grace's scowl is so much like Sam's it's kinda scary. "I swear to _God_, you break Mom's heart again…well, I'm not going to take it. I don't care if everyone else does, I'm not letting you walk away from this family again, do you hear me?"

"Have this conversation with me tomorrow," Dean suggests in a low, angry tone. "Maybe I'll be able to explain myself better." He pulls away from her, heads toward the door.

"Dean!" Grace lunges, snatching his left forearm and jerking it, and Dean hisses in pain before he can stop himself. His and Sam's last gig before they took on the wishing well job was exorcising an exceptionally violent poltergeist; Dean had spent a night in the ER getting stitches, and Grace has just inadvertently loosened one of them and pressed down on some nasty bruises.

"_Ouch_," he says through clenched teeth. "Dammit, now look what you've done."

"Don't be a baby," she says, rolling her eyes. "I didn't grab you that—that…hard…" Her eyes widen as Dean pulls of his long sleeved shirt and he tries to look at his arm in the mirror to asses the damage that's been done. The stitch is _definitely _messed up, and now Dean's got bruises on top of his bruises. Who knew such a little person could do so much with just one yank? "Dean." Grace's voice is small, quiet, her eyes wide.

"What?" he snaps, concentrating more on his arm at the moment than anything else. His gaze travels upwards to meet hers in the mirror, and instantly he realizes his mistake.

"What _happened _to you?" She sounds terrified, like she's on the verge of crying all of a sudden.

"Nothing," he say quickly. "I just got a nasty cut and needed some stitches."

"That wasn't there yesterday," Grace says shakily. "We—we went swimming—"

"I got it last night," he says in a desperate attempt to recover. "That's why I was in so late."

"No you didn't." She's mesmerized, staring at his arm, drawing closer to take a look. "Dean, these bruises here are old." She lays a finger on one of them gently, then squints at the stitches. "And the cut or whatever it was isn't fresh, it's half-healed."

"I—"

"And these scars." Grace's voice is shaking as she motions at his body in general. Dean squints at himself in the mirror and has to admit that, yeah, okay, he's practically covered in old wounds, some of them nasty, some of them as minor as a surgical scar.

"I got into a lot of fights in Texas," he says lamely, remembering briefly that Texas is apparently where he's been living.

"I saw you without a shirt yesterday and you did _not _look like this," Grace says stubbornly, eyes hardening. "I think I would remember if my older brother suddenly looked like he'd lost a fight with a lawnmower." Dean suppresses a grin, remembering using the lawnmower line himself once.

"I don't know what to tell you," he says finally.

"Well, too bad." Grace steps forward, face set. "You can start with just who the hell you are."

--

"I'm telling you, this is not a good idea," Dean insists as he follows Grace upstairs. "I don't even think I'm aloud to explain it to you."

She marches into his room, then slams the door.

"Give it a whirl," she directs, sitting down on one of the beds. "I don't get it, all right? You were definitely Dean yesterday—and this morning when you woke up, you didn't even know who I was, did you?" Dean looks away. It's becoming increasingly apparent to him that it is almost impossible to lie to Grace. "I thought so," she says, strangely triumphant.

"You won't believe me," Dean says at last.

"Of course I will," Grace sighs.

"That's the thing." Dean sits on the bed opposite her, clenches his fists. "I'm not sure I want you to."

"I'm your _sister_."

Dean runs a hand along his face, trying to bite back a wince.

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda still getting used to that," he mutters.

There is a moment of long silence, and finally Grace says,

"Just tell me what's going on before I get Mom and Dad."

"No! No, don't get them," Dean says desperately. "My _God_, I can't believe how messed up this is."

"Start talking, then," Grace suggests, pulling her knees to her chest. "You've told me crazy stuff before."

"Not this crazy, princess," Dean sighs. "Look, if I start suffocating or something, you're gonna have to cut me a break. I can't believe I'm even considering filling you in—and I don't know if you'll even remember this thing tomorrow, so I won't be sparing any feelings. Clear?"

"Crystal," Grace says, raising a brow.

"So," Dean says after a minute or so, "do you believe in ghosts?"

"What?"

"Answer the question."

"Uh…well, no, I guess," Grace says at long last. Dean sighs irritably.

"Of course you wouldn't," he sighs. "Great. This is going to be just _loads _of fun, then."

"What do ghosts have to with anything?" Grace asks, squinting at Dean.

"Everything." Dean stands, falling into his habitual pacing. All this nervous energy and nothing to do with it except terrify his little sister. "Okay, I should probably be blunt about this."

"Any day now," Grace calls sarcastically.

"I'm from a different world."

There is a long, long silence.

"Excuse me?"

"A different world," Dean repeats. "This is like…an alternate universe for me, okay?"

"Okay," Grace says after another pregnant pause. "So, what kind of drugs are you on?"

"It's not drugs!" Dean clenches his fists, drawing a deep breath. "Do you want to hear this or what?" Her silence is answer enough. "Where I come from," Dean says at last, "Sam and I hunt ghosts."

"Ghosts," Grace repeats faintly.

"Well, anything supernatural, really," Dean continues, gaining steam now that it seems apparent Selena won't try to stop him from telling Grace about everything. He'll have to think about why that is later. "Everything you read about in books and crap—spirits, demons, poltergeists, werewolves, vampires—they all exist. Sam and I get rid of them."

"Why?"

"Why?" Dean repeats, blinking at her. This was the point where he'd expected she would faint or run screaming from the room for Mom or Dad to tell them her brother had gone insane. He hadn't been expecting her to ask _why_. Uh-oh. "Uh, that's kinda complicated," he says at long last.

"Take off your shirt again," Grace directs suddenly, standing up abruptly.

"_What?_"

"Just do it, okay?"

Warily, he pulls off the shirt and she crosses the room, crouching down and running a finger across one of the scars.

"This is real," she says to herself, examining the mark on his side. "It's _real_."

"Yeah," Dean says softly. "I know how weird this must be. Truth be told, it's kind of weird for me too, and I see a lot of freaky stuff."

She stares at him.

"You're telling the truth," Grace says wonderingly, her eyes wide. "God, I must be going insane."

"You're not," Dean offers as she rises to her feet and starts to pace much the way he did. "This is a curse, but it's on me, not you. Your Dean should be back safe and sound by tomorrow."

"But you're not him?"

"No."

"Yeah," she says, frowning. "I thought you were strange from the start. You sort of carry yourself differently than he does." Grace meets Dean's gaze. "Like you're, you know, confident."

"He's not?"

"He is, I guess." She shrugs. "But it's fake, you know? You don't—he doesn't—have very good self-esteem. He thinks he's a disappointment."

Dean folds his arms, staring down at his feet.

"Yeah, well."

"So wait," Grace says, shaking her head rapidly. "Wait, back up. You said you hunt ghosts, right? So why are you here?"

Quickly, Dean explains about the wishing well, mentions the wish he made, his visit from Selena, and how his plan backfired.

"And then you ended up here," Grace says when he finishes that portion of the story. She runs a hand over her face, falling back to sit on the bed. "God. So you're stuck for a week?"

"Only one day here, I think." Dean yawns. "I hope Sam's not too worried," he says absentmindedly. "Geek will probably be having a field day with your Dean, trying to figure out how to get me back." When Grace doesn't answer, Dean glances up to find her staring at him, a funny expression on her face.

"Dean," she says, "why did you and Sam leave, back in your world? Why are you hunting ghosts and stuff?"

Oh shit.

"Grace. Don't make me talk about this."

"Dean, if I might not remember this anyway, what does it matter?"

"But," Dean says, swallowing, "you might. And trust me sweetheart, some things you're better off not knowing."

"I can handle it."

"Yeah, and I thought I could handle this!" Dean yells, standing up quickly. "I wish I'd listened to Sam when he told me it was a bad idea to make the wish. Hell, I wish I'd never even agreed to take this job in the first place, but I did, and now I'm paying the consequences. Don't ask me to make you pay consequences, too."

"Is it really so bad here?" Grace asks. "What could be so horrible that it's making you act like this? Somehow I get the feeling you're just as macho and hard-shelled as _my _Dean. It takes a lot to make him start crying, too."

"It's complicated."

"Everything's complicated, Dean!" Grace cries. "That's just life. Tell me why you and Sam are hunting ghosts!"

"I don't want to."

"You're still my big brother, whether or not you happen to live in this dimension or some other random one," Grace tells him quietly. "We're best friends here, even if we don't say two words to each other where you live. Or…at least we used to be close…" She looks sad suddenly. "Why is this place so different from where you come from, Dean?"

"I've already told you too much," Dean says stubbornly.

"Why don't Mom and Dad make you stop hunting?" Grace wonders. "Don't they ever ask what you do?"

"Stop."

"Did you and Dad have another fight? Is that why you left?"

"Please, just let it go."

"Let it _go? _I wake up and my own brother doesn't recognize me and then he tells me he's a ghost hunter from a different dimension! Whether or not this is your fault _my_ Dean is gone, I think you owe me a full explanation." She scowls at him. "How long has it been since you saw me where you live? How little was I when you left?"

"What makes you think I left when you were little?" Dean snaps, feeling pissed off despite himself.

"Because how else would you not _know _what I look like?" Grace asks, exasperated. "Maybe this is your 'normal life' because it's the one you never got to have, since you left and stuff."

Dean turns, anger and hurt and pain building inside of him.

_This isn't intervention, _he thinks to Selena, wherever the hell that witch is. _This is fucking torture._

"I've never seen you." Dean says it quietly, before he can think twice.

"What?"

"You want to know the truth?" Dean spins on his heel, turning to look at Grace, who's sitting on the bed, looking up at him defiantly.

"Yeah," she says, "I do."

"Where I come from," Dean tells her, their gazes locked, "you don't exist."

_How weird that must be to hear_, Dean thinks as Grace's shoulders sag, her eyes wide.

"But…but why?" she whispers.

"When I was four, a demon came into Sam's nursery," Dean says in a flat voice. "This thing's a bad son-of-a-bitch, and I'm still not entirely sure what it wants with him. It killed Mom. Pinned her to the ceiling, set the house on fire. Sam, Dad, and I were lucky to make it out alive." Dean turns away so he doesn't have to watch his sister's face. "Dad thought he was crazy at first," Dean continues on, "but he knew what he saw wasn't natural. So he contacted a psychic and the gist of it is he started learning how to hunt supernatural stuff, how to kill evil things so that when we found Mom's murderer, we could destroy it once and for all. That's how Sam and I were raised, learning how to hunt that stuff. We grew up in motels and crappy apartments all over America, and it's the only life we've ever known."

"Oh God." Grace is simply staring at him now, her face drawn tight. "In…in your world, is Dad okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know if Mom ever died here," she whispers, "Dad would never be the same again."

"He wasn't," Dean says stiffly. "My Dad was probably so different from your Dad it's not even funny."

"Was?"

"He died months ago, Grace," Dean says quietly. "The demon got him, too."

"Oh God," Grace repeats. "Oh…oh, God."

"Don't freak out," Dean tells her firmly. "You can't do that, all right? Nobody but you should know I'm here. I'll be gone by tomorrow anyway, but until then, fill me in on the Dean here. I can't keep making mistakes like I have been or I'll just end up traumatizing everyone else, too." When she doesn't respond, Dean says sharply, "Gracie."

"Sorry," she says in a muffled sort of voice. "Just processing."

"Yeah, I get how that goes."

"Okay," his little sister says after a long moment, looking up and meeting his gaze. "So, Dean, let me tell you about yourself."

--

It's an hour before the wedding, and the world around Dean is one of chaos and worried little brothers.

"What if I drop the ring?" Simon asks for the hundredth time. "I'm too old to be a ring-bearer, anyways. People will laugh at me."

"_They_ won't laugh, dude," Dean tells the kid as he helps him straighten his geeky bow tie, "_I _will."

"Jerk," Simon mutters in a very familiar way.

From across the room, Grace catches Dean's eye and gives him an encouraging half-smile.

The day has been long and difficult so far, but with Grace's help, Dean is coping a hell of a lot better than he was first thing this morning. From her information, he knows that he's a firefighter living in Houston and he had a big falling-out with the family a year ago (though Grace wasn't too specific with the details of how said falling-out happened, just that it had something to do with Dad). He also knows that Grace is sixteen and Simon is twelve, that the Winchesters have lived in Lawrence since Dean was born but they moved to a bigger house when Mom found out she was pregnant with Grace, and that Jess and Sam have been engaged for a year.

Dean briefly mentioned Jess' death to Grace, who had been completley devastated on Sam's behalf and had even cried before Dean reminded her that all the deaths that happened in _his _world stayed in his world, and that she shouldn't worry about Mom or Dad or Jess or even her Dean and where he was.

"He'll just be pissed he missed the wedding," she had sighed. "You better do a good job."

"I will," Dean had told her honestly. "I'd give anything for my Sam to have what your Sam does."

"Yeah," Grace had said after a minute. "Me too."

Now Sam is sitting next to him muttering about how nervous he is and how weird it'll be to be a married man at last and oh-my-God-what-if-I-screw-up-the-vows (apparently, he wrote them himself).

"Sam," Dean says, turning to his brother, "stop spazzing. By the end of today, you'll be married to the girl of your dreams. If you screw up, you screw up. Doesn't mean she's gonna love you any less."

"Thanks, man," Sam says after a moment, smiling weakly. "Just pre-ceremony jitters. You know."

Before Dean can respond, Dad appears, announcing that it's time to head to the church. The limo is supposed to take everyone in the wedding party who's not already there over, and since it'll be a tight fit, John is driving his pick-up truck separately.

"I'll go with you, Dad," Dean says at once, jumping at the chance to spend some time with his father. "Please?"

"Okay," Dad agrees affably, shrugging. "We'll see y'all at the church," he adds to the rest. They all head for the limo and Dean follows his father.

"How are you, Dad?" Dean asks as his father starts the ignition. "Seriously?"

"I'm doing fine, son," Dad answers. "We've missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," Dad continues as they turn left off of the street, "about what happened last year. I just wanted what was best for you."

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Dad," Dean says. "I was the one who left." _The stupid idiot who abandoned his family, _Dean thinks angrily. _He doesn't know how lucky he has it._

"I shouldn't have told you that your career was stupid," Dad says, shaking a head. "It's an honorable thing, what you do, Dean, and I should have given it the respect it deserves. It just worries your mother and me that you're risking your life day in and day out."

"It does?" Dean doesn't know why this should surprise him. After all, he reminds himself, this John Winchester is not the John Winchester Dean grew up with. This man has never known true loss or pain, never seen a nightmare come to life. This John Winchester is happy, something Dean's dad never, ever was after his wife's death.

"Of course. I'd never want you hurt, son, and neither would your mother. You know that."

Dean smiles, staring down at his shiny shoes.

"Yeah, I guess I do," he agrees.

--

To be honest, Dean doesn't pay much attention to the wedding ceremony. He stands next to Sam but he tries to tune it out because this is another thing that hurts like hell: watching his brother get the life he's always dreamed about.

Watching Sam marry Jess starts the ache up in Dean's chest again because it just reminds him that his Sammy is never going to have this day. Grace, standing next to Jess as one of her numerous bridesmaids, meets Dean's eyes and smiles a little, an attempt to comfort him silently.

_God, I'm gonna miss her, _Dean thinks, wondering how it's possible he can love a little sister that doesn't exist, at least not for him.

After Sam and Jess are husband and wife, things begin to blur together.

The ride to the hotel where they're holding the reception goes by in the blink of an eye. Dinner is over in a flash. Dean reads his best man speech in a quavering voice, gives a toast to Sam and Jess, pretends to smile but really just feels like throwing up.

His head is killing him.

"You look sick," Simon tells him when he flops into a chair next to the kid. "Are you okay?"

"I will be," Dean says, smiling at him tightly.

"Hey," Grace says, slipping into the seat on Dean's other side. "Why aren't you talking to Mom?" She nods to the left, and Dean let's his gaze travel to where his mother sits, chatting with Jess' mother animatedly. "This might be one of your last chances," she adds softly.

"I guess you're right." Dean shifts uncomfortably. He wants to spend as much time as he can with Mom…but for twenty-three years, she's been dead. For twenty-three years he's missed her and loved her and needed her, and now that she's sitting merely feet away from him, alive and well, he doesn't want to mess it up.

"Go," Grace says.

Dean stands just as Jess' mother does, and he moves quickly, taking the seat next to his mom.

"Hi," he says, smiling at her.

"Dean!" Mom smiles back. "Your speech was wonderful."

"Nah," Dean says gruffly, clearing his throat. "I hate doing stuff like that."

"I know. That's why it makes you such a good big brother." She rests a hand on his, smiling. "You made Sam's night by being here," she adds. "He really was afraid you wouldn't come."

"He shouldn't have been." Dean watches as the hired deejay announces that it's time for the newlywed's first dance. After a few minutes, others begin filtering onto the floor, and Mom turns to him.

"Would you dance with me, Dean?" Mom asks, standing up and holding out a hand. "For old time's sake?"

"'Course I will, Mom," Dean manages. "We'll show these kids how it's done." He leads his mother onto the dance floor and falls hastily into step, trying to remember how to lead.

"How's Texas?" Mom wants to know.

"It's very…uh, hot," Dean supplies lamely. "Lots of fires to fight."

"You're being careful, aren't you?"

"I'm always careful," Dean responds, echoing his words to Sam from the previous night.

"You just like to think you are, hon," Mom corrects, laughing. "You need to take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will, Mom," Dean assures her, because what else can he do? "I promise."

Mom opens her mouth to say something else, but a voice interrupts them.

"Mind if I cut in?" Dad asks, and Dean steps away from his mother without even considering it.

"Go ahead, Dad," Dean says, watching almost eagerly as his father takes his mother into his arms. They look happy together, complete, like they're puzzle pieces that only fit with each other. They're perfect.

Dean turns abruptly and goes to sit, waiting for the song to end. When it does, Sam comes to find him.

It's still hard for Dean to adjust to a Sam who is _not _in on the loop, a Sam who's carefree and happy and married, a Sam who laughs at almost everything and smiles and doesn't have visions.

"…just can't believe I'm married!" Dean catches the tail end of Sam's sentence and smiles at his brother.

"I'm happy for you, man," he says honestly. "You couldn't have found a better girl."

"Don't I know it." Sam sighs contentedly. "What about you? Any dream girls down in Texas?"

"No," Dean answers quietly. "Not yet."

"Just wait," Sam says confidently. "You'll find her soon—I know it."

"I hope so," Dean says. "Look, I've got a really bad headache, Sam. I'm gonna head back to the house and turn in, if that's okay with you."

"Yeah, you look kind of queasy," Sam agrees. "Don't worry about it, man. Jess and I will see you tomorrow before we leave for England."

"Good," Dean says. "And Sammy, about tonight." He waggles his eyebrows. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Sam predictably goes bright red.

"Good night, Dean," he says loudly, standing up quickly.

"Night, little brother," Dean says. "Take care."

"Are you leaving?" Simon asks solemnly, apparently having been listening to the conversation.

"Yeah, you were right earlier. I'm sick," Dean says, looking down at his other little brother. It's really quite scary how much Simon looks like Dad—they have the same dimples, the same build, the same hair, the same shape of face. Simon is timid in a way Dad isn't, though, quiet and sensitive. He's like Sam in that way, but he's the youngest of the family, the one who lives in his older siblings' shadows. Dean doesn't have to be a genius to figure that one out.

"I hope you feel better." Simon smiles brightly. "It's cool Sammy's married, huh?"

"Pretty damn cool all right," Dean agrees, and suddenly is gripped by the longing to get to know the kid better before he has to leave. "Look, dude, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Simon accepts. "Bye."

"Bye, kid," Dean returns quietly.

He briefly tells his parents he's leaving, and stiffens when they each give him a hug, knowing it's the last time he'll ever get one from either of them. He tells them he loves them, and then, before he can stop himself, gives each of them a second hug, taking time to memorize the way his mother's arms feel around him and the roughness of his father's tux.

Grace appears out of thin air and announces she'll give him a ride home and then take the pick-up back to the reception, and that's that.

Dean stands for a minute at the doorway to look at what could have been, the way his life could have unfolded if Sammy hadn't ever been Chosen.

It's not a perfect life—even he can see that—but it's a wonderful life full of wonderful people, and the ache in his chest is increasing a little more every time he takes a step away from it. He doesn't know how the Dean here could ever have left it, imperfections or not. It feels safe, it feels right, it feels normal.

It feels, Dean realizes, like home.

Grace drives him to the house, walks him inside, and then they stand together at the foot of the stairs, staring at each other.

"I hope you figure out how to break the curse," Grace says finally. "And I hope when you get back to your world you find that demon and you kick its ass."

"Me too," Dean says. "Thank you, Gracie. For everything you did for me today."

"You're my big brother," she says shakily. "If anyone but you had told me all the stuff you talked about today, I would have committed them. I know that if something like that ever happened to me, you…or the you that lives here…would have done the same for me."

"I'm gonna miss you," Dean says, voicing his thoughts from earlier. "You and me, I can tell we get along."

"Mom always says it's the age difference," Grace confides. "No competition like there is with you and Sam or me and Simon."

"I've got to go to sleep, Grace," Dean says finally. "I can barely keep my eyes open."

She lunges at him, giving him a huge hug (being especially careful not to touch his hurt arm).

"I love you, Dean," she says into his shoulder. "Be careful out there."

"I love you too, Gracie," he says, and it's all he can do not to stay awake forever, if only so he doesn't have to leave the life he's sure he's always wanted.


	3. It Doesn't Get Any Weirder Than This

_Author's Note: _I can't tell you all how much your wonderful feedback means to me. It's really brightened up a few of my darker days and helped keep me focused on writing. The next chapter is on its way and will be up as soon as I can find the time to polish it up. Okay, just a heads-up for people like me who generally shy away from crack!fic--I am totally going against my own Supernatural Code of Honor and this next chapter is way more crack!fic-ish than the last one. I was actually really surprised and pleased to hear people who generally don't like sister fics enjoyed the last chapter, so I can only hope that will apply for this one. This chapter is a lot shorter than the other ones and I'm not entirely pleased with it--there wasn't as much conflict or emotional depth to it, but I'm working on making up for it in chapter three. Anyways, this author's note is getting long-winded, so I'll sign off now. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading, guys!

_**ooo**_

**Day Two:**

_**It Doesn't Get Any Weirder Than This**_

_The first thing Dean does when he sees Selena is grab her shoulders and slam her against the side of the well._

"_You sick, twisted—"_

"_You cannot harm me," she says softly, "so let me go."_

"_I don't care if I can hurt you or not! What the hell was that supposed to be?!"_

"_That was what you've always wanted, Dean." The witch smiles at him, then lifts a hand and waves it airily. Startled, Dean falls backwards, shoved by some invisible force. "So I showed you how it might have been. Was it as perfect as you imagined?"_

"_No," Dean says quietly, turning to pace to the other side of the wishing well. "It was better."_

"_Then why do you wish to hurt me?"_

"_Because I'd be better off not knowing about it!" Dean roars. "Don't you understand? Grace is real somewhere, Simon is real, Mom and Dad are real, Sammy being happy is real. And I can't have that."_

"_But the Dean in that world was not happy," Selena says softly. "Did you miss that part?'_

_Dean's head jerks up. _

"What does that—"

"_That Dean was not happy," Selena repeats. "Why else would he have left home as he did?"_

"_He's an ass, obviously," Dean says, raising a brow. "Doesn't know how good he fucking has it."_

"_Maybe." Selena smiles cryptically. _

"_Is…is there any way…" Dean lowers his head, trying to swallow properly. "That I could…"_

"_No." Her voice is firm, but gentle. "No, Dean, that is not how this works."_

"_But it's what I want," Dean manages. "It's…can't I see them again? Just one more time?"_

"_No, Dean."_

"_So what am I supposed to do now?" Dean demands, trying to suppress the shaking in his hands. _

"_Listen to me." The witch takes a few steps closer, sympathy in her eyes. "I did not show you that life to break you. It was to give you hope."_

_  
"How is that supposed to give me hope?"_

"_The world is not all evil, Dean. Think on it." Selena pauses, tilting her head again to listen. "We have just a few more minutes before I go."_

"_So where am I waking up this time?" Dean asks sourly._

"_Somewhere familiar," Selena says, a hint of a grin flickering across her features._

"_And what am I gonna find there?"_

"_Somebody familiar."_

"_I thought the point of this was to show me what my life could have been like, not to show me familiar stuff." _

"It will be familiar," Selena murmurs, "but not the same."

"_Could you give me a little more to go on?"_

"_Your wish was not particularly specific," she tells him. "You gave me plenty to work with. You will see now a familiar life, but with a twist."_

"_Meaning?"_

"_Do not expect to find happiness everywhere you go, Dean Winchester." Selena turns. "She is coming."_

"_Oh, great. Is there another little sister I don't know about?"_

_The last thing Dean hears before Selena disappears is her laughing in delighted amusement, a sound that will echo through his head even when he leaves the dream behind._

_--_

The first thing Dean feels when he wakes up is the cold steel of a gun pressed against his temple.

Well. This should be interesting.

"Who are you?" a voice demands.

Nervously, Dean cracks an eye open. Standing beside him is a fairly tall, pretty girl with dark, wavy hair and strangely familiar eyes. Oh yeah, and she also looks severely pissed-off, which comes as no surprise.

"Whoa there, Annie Oakley," he says, not too tired to lay on the snark. "Let me sit up and maybe then I can explain."

"Yeah, sure, when hell freezes over," the girl snaps. "I'm not an idiot. What have you done with Dee?"

"Who?"

"Delia."

Dean blinks at the girl.

"Uh, I have no idea. Just…look, what's your name? I don't know where I am. If I know who you are, that may help." _Someone familiar_, Dean thinks at once. _Selena said someone familiar would be here; maybe this chick knows Sam. _"Is Sam here?" he tries, hoping it'll help her relax a little.

"You're talking to her," the girl responds, look no less pissed than before.

"_You're _Sam?" She nods. "Let me try this again: Sam _Winchester?_"

"What are you, deaf? Yes!"

"But…you can't—" Dean's eyes widen. _No. No, she wouldn't have. That little… _"Put down the gun, Sammy," Dean sighs, sitting up and waving it away. _Ha ha, Selena, this is soooo fucking hilarious. _

"Nobody but Delia gets to call me Sammy," the girl snaps. "And why the hell should I do that?"

"Well, you wouldn't wanna hurt your sister, now would you?" Dean asks, grinning charmingly. Instead of having the desired effect, Sam's eyes widen, and she holds up the gun again, looking slightly panicked.

"What have you done to her, you—"

"Oh, come on," Dean cries. "You're supposed to be the smart one here, College Boy—uh…Girl."

This throws Sam for a loop, and she squints at Dean disbelievingly.

"It can't be," she says slowly, a grin spreading across her face. "Dee?"

"Dean," Dean corrects grumpily. "It's _Dean_."

--

"So let me get this straight." Sam leans forward, brow furrowed in a way that is all too familiar. "You made a wish to have a different life…and now the curse has landed you here?"

"Yep. This is day two," Dean says, then groans. "God, Sam is gonna have a field day with this one. That witch sure has a crappy sense of humor."

"Oh, please," Sam sighs. "I'll—he'll—be fine. We deal with weirder stuff than this all the time, don't we?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Dean looks around the motel room, grinning a little. "So you're a hunter, huh, princess?"

"Easy with the pet names, there," Sam says in a bored voice. "You really _are _her, aren't you?"

"The male version at any rate."

"And yes, Mr. Sexist Pig, I _am _a hunter. What, you think just 'cause Daddy had two little girls instead of two little boys he'd let the Demon get away?"

"I'm not sexist," Dean says. "Just kinda funny to picture Sammy in a dress wielding a gun."

"I don't wear dresses," Sam snaps. "And cut it out with the Sammy crap already."

"Would you prefer _Samantha?"_

_  
_"Quit it, will you Dee?" Sam sighs. "As long as you're here, we may as well try to figure out how to break the curse. Sitting here whining about it won't solve anything."

"It's Dean."

A slow grin spreads across Sam's face.

"Payback's a bitch, _Delia._ Payback's a bitch."

--

"So," Dean says, taking a bite out of the lukewarm Egg McMuffin he's dining on, courtesy of McDonald's.

"So," Sam repeats, taking a sip of disgusting orange juice.

They stare at each other.

"This," Dean announces at long last, "is just never going to stop being weird."

"Tell me about it," Sam mutters, raising a dark brow. "You try waking up and having a brother instead of a sister!"

"Try waking up and having a sister instead of a brother," Dean grumbles.

"So what do we do?" Sam wants to know. "I feel like we should be doing something."

"What, like breaking the curse? The witch keeps telling me I have to wait it out."

"That sounds like a load of bull shit to me," Sammy announces. "There must be some way."

"I think so too," Dean agrees, and tries to shake off the freaked-out feeling. This _is _Sam, just Sam in chick-form…which is not all that different, he reasons, from Sam in guy-form. This Sam is just shorter and prettier and girlier and spends a little more time on hair care.

"Well, before we get into this," Sam says, and she grins a little, "tell me what I'm like where you're from."

"You're…uh…a guy," Dean says, shrugging. "I got a picture," he adds as an afterthought, and digs in the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. "I always keep one in case we get separated." Sam laughs.

"I do that too," she admits. "Here. Swap." She yanks out her own wallet, pulls out a photo, and shoves it at him just as he hands her the photo of guy-Sam.

Dean peers at the photo of his female counterpart.

He is pleased to note that hell yeah, girl or guy, he is _smokin'._

Well. Kind of.

The girl in the photo is half-smiling at the camera, she has his green eyes and freckles, but her hair is blonder (bleached, he suspects), and she looks way skinner than he's ever been. It's still him though, weird as it is.

Creepy.

"How tall am I?" Sam demands skeptically, eyeing her photo. "I look kind of…gangly."

"You're like 6'5, dude," Dean snorts. "And you're way taller than me."

"Hah!" She looks pleased. "I'm taller than Dee here, too."

"I'll just bet," Dean mutters. He hands her back her photo, and then adds, "Okay, so let's talk about breaking the curse."

"Are you sure you want to?"

"What? Of course I am."

"You're not curious?" Sam takes another sip of her orange juice, looking thoughtful. "I mean, you already saw one really great alternative to what our lives could have been like."

"And this is another alternative," Dean snaps. "It's exactly the same."

"Not the same," Sam corrects, looking mildly annoyed. "We're girls over here."

"So, what's the big difference? You do the same shit us guys do."

"Yeah, but I don't think you get it. We're not, like, exactly the _same. _I mean, I can tell you right now Dee may act a lot like you, but she's got a woman's take on everything. She's…less intense, you know?" Dean winces.

"I'll pretend like that doesn't embarrass me."

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs. "Besides, we haven't done a wishing well gig, so maybe we don't do the same things." Dean's head snaps up.

"Hey, I hadn't thought of that. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday," Dean repeats, eyes wide. "Dude. Okay, so this is the day we found the gig—dammit, I knew this place looked familiar!"

"What?"

"Talk about déjà vu—we ate breakfast at this McDonald's, you and me! Only…we didn't have this conversation, obviously. You had a newspaper and were reading the national news section…"

"Do you mean," Sam asks, grinning, "_this _newspaper?" She whips it out of her bag, and Dean nods his affirmation.

"Yup. The article should be somewhere in the middle."

She flips through, scans a couple headlines, and grins triumphantly.

"Bingo," she announces. "Okay, so we know Dee and I would have been on the same track as you and your Sam. So, now what?"

"I…" Dean pauses. "…have no idea. Why don't we just go to the library and look stuff up about curses? That's what I bet Sam is doing back where I'm from."

"Good idea," Sam laughs, and then stands. "C'mon. Let's see what we can figure out."

--

Four hours of research yields absolutely nothing, and eventually, even Dean is ready to call it quits.

"Okay," he manages with a sigh, throwing down the last, heaviest book, "so maybe I really _do _need to wait it out."

"It's not that bad," Sam says helpfully. "I mean, it's not like she's killing you."

"Well, not _literally_. Tell you what, _you _make a wish at the wishing well when you and Dee take this gig, and then we'll talk."

"Who says we're doing this stupid gig?"

"Because something tells me you won't remember this tomorrow. Just a hunch."

"What, I won't remember my older sister being body snatched?" Sam snorts.

"Hate to break it to you, princess, but this _is _a curse. Sometimes curses work like that," Dean says. "I don't actually know for sure what happens to you tomorrow." He pauses. "Hey…Sammy, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is Delia happy?"

"Happy." Sam studies Dean carefully, her eyes sad. "No," she says after a moment. "She's really not."

"Why not?"

"What do you think? You're not happy, are you?" She sighs. "Dee is just—she's pretty complicated."

"Yeah," Dean says softly. "I know how that goes."

There is a moment of comfortable silence where they stare at each other from across the table, Sammy smiling lopsidedly. Then, all at once, her brows furrow, eyebrows drawing together, and she brings a pale hand up to her head.

"Sam?" Dean asks worriedly. "You okay?"

"_Vision,_" she manages, gasping in pain. "I—Dee—" Sam slumps onto the table, and Dean hurries to her side to watch helplessly as the familiar onset of a vision overtakes his sister.

"Hey, Sammy, it's gonna be okay," Dean attempts to soothe, just like always. Sam begins to slide off the chair, writhing in pain, and Dean hurries to catch her before she hits the ground.

"Hey, man." A young librarian, apparently alerted by Sam's cries of pain, is now standing beside Dean, looking concerned. "Do I need to call 911? Your girlfriend looks like she's in rough shape."

"She's my sister," Dean snaps, before it occurs to him that some stranger mistaking Sam for his girlfriend is not really the biggest issue right now. "Uh, thanks and everything, but it's okay, I can handle it. She's—um—epileptic. I'll just get her out of here and give her the meds." Dean lifts Sam easily, a feat he never could have accomplished were he back in his world, and the librarian helpfully grabs Sam's bag.

"There's a backroom you can use if you want," he says. "We just use it for storage and stuff. You're welcome to stay back there with her until she's…uh, better and stuff."

"Thanks," Dean says gratefully, glad he doesn't have to take Sam outside. "That'll be great."

The librarian has just ushered them into the room and left when the vision seems to break and Sam sits up, forehead sticky with sweat and eyes wild.

"Dee!" she hollers, looking close to tears.

"Hey, Sammy, I'm here." Dean pats her shoulder. "You're safe, all right? We're just in the backroom of the library, we can stay as long as you need to."

"What—I—" Sam pauses to draw a great, rattling breath. "I'm in danger," she says finally, her voice very low and scared.

"What?" Dean frowns, worried. "Is it the Demon, Sammy?" Sam inhales sharply.

"Look, Dean," she says in a low, worried voice, "I can't tell you what I saw."

"_What?_"

"I can't," she repeats. "But listen, I think I can get away with telling you this much: it's _your _Sam who's in danger. You have to protect him, Dean."

"I always—"

"No, I mean, when you go back to where you're from. This curse is more dangerous than we thought."

"Sam, come on, you have to give me more to go on than that." Dean looks at her desperately, nearly bursting with frustration. "That stupid witch has already kept me in the dark enough—!"

"You have to break the curse, Dean," Sam begs. "When you get back. You have to break it fast, and then you have to burn the wishing well."

"You can't fucking burn a _well, _Samantha!" Dean roars. "It's impossible!"

"Well, find a way," Sam hisses, eyes blazing. "And break the curse."

"How?!"

"I can't tell you," Sam says miserably. "She—she's sealed it."

"Selena?" Dean barks. Sam doesn't respond, merely stares down at her feet. "Sam, what happens if I don't figure out a way to break the curse? Do I die or something?"

"No," Sam whispers, her eyes meeting Dean's meaningfully. "_You _don't."

That answer would be reassuring in any other context, but the ominous weight of Sam's words make goose bumps crawl along Dean's skin.

--

The rest of the day goes by in a flash, and Sam will barely look at him.

"I hope you're right," she says before they go to bed. "I hope I forget."

"Tell me," Dean demands for the millionth time.

Sam doesn't bother to answer him any more.

They lie in their beds, but neither sleep—it's only eight o'clock, and neither are used to early bedtimes.

"So what was your Dad like?" Sam finally whispers through the darkness.

"Stubborn," Dean sighs after a moment. "A stubborn, relentless, bitter old bastard who worked himself to death."

"Did he make you go to church, too?"

"What?" Dean props himself up on his elbow, genuinely surprised. "No, of course not. That was Mom's thing." Sam shoots him a funny look.

"Dad was the weirdest hunter in the frigging world," she says after a time. "He was religious, never drank, he was gentle…I mean, hell, he'd never even held a gun before Mom's death. And even then, he hated what we did. If he didn't want revenge so bad, didn't want to make sure Delia and I were safe, he probably never would have trained us. He actually sent me to college, said that's what Mom would have liked…"

Dean stares at Sam blankly.

"Dad?" he says, confused. Everything else in this world has been the same except genders; he doesn't get why Dad would have been so incredibly different. "_Our _dad? John Winchester?"

"John?" Now Sam sounds even more puzzled. "His name was Michael."

"_Michael?" _Dean is now incredulous. "No it _wasn't_, it was—" He breaks off, slowly putting two and two together. "Wait a minute…what was Mom's name?"

"Jane," Sam says, sounding puzzled.

"Fuck." Dean has to laugh, because seriously, this is just getting a little too messed up. "You do realize that my Mom was your Dad and your Dad was my Mom?"

"_What?_"

"It doesn't get any weirder than this, _Samantha_," he sighs. "It can't."

There is a pause.

"Hey, you know, it was good to see another side of Delia," Sam says at last, now sounding a little sleepy. "Just—just remember what I said. Watch out for me—for…for him, okay, Dean?"

Dean sighs, rolls over so he's on his side.

"I always do, Sammy," he murmurs into his pillow as the first wave of drowsiness descends on him. "Always."

**_ooo_**

_Author's Note Again:_

On a totally random side note, I picture Girl!Sam like a taller, slightly younger of Evangeline Lilly from _Lost _and I once heard Girl!Dean described to look like Maggie Grace (also from _Lost) _and I haven't been able to think of "her" any other way since reading that particular description. Oh, and on another totally random side note, Grace looks a lot like Hayden Panettiere from _Heroes_ in my mind. Heh heh, I always have to have visuals when I'm writing weird stuff like this.


	4. Interlude, Part One

_Disclaimer:_

You know, I recently read the summary for the next ep of _Supernatural_ that's coming out, and hey! Dean supposedly gets his reality warped and gets to see what life would have been like if his mom had been alive. Wow, that sounds oddly familiar--why, I'd even compare it to chapter one of _this _story. Maybe _I'm _not the one who should be posting a disclaimer, huh, Kripke?

::coughcoughcough::: Well, he owns Sam and Dean at any rate, worse luck still.

_Author's Note:_

Hey, kids. It's been a while.

I'm sorry the updating has been slow but I've been swamped with work the past few weeks and it's only thanks to a long weekend I even found the time to churn this latest chapter out. I can't thank you guys enough for all the great feedback you've given me--in fact, it's due to several reviewers' comments that this chapter even exists. A few people wanted to know if we'd ever get to see what was going on with Sam while Dean was off having his adventure in Alternate Reality land. I had intended to write a separate fic for Sam, but I figured, why wait?

So welcome to Interlude, Part One, which shifts focus from the Dean we all know and love and concentrates on how the Dean from the different reality might be dealing, and how Sammy's handling things as well. I think what I'll do is have two chapters for Canon!Dean, then an 'interulde' (comprised of two parts, or chapters) with Sam and AU!Dean, which sorta blows my original seven chapter idea out of the water, but oh well. I hope this works out and doesn't ruin the flow of the story or anything.

So anwyays, please enjoy! I had fun writing this chapter, and I hope you have fun reading it. Reviews are always appreciated, so if you have a minute let me know what you think.

_ooo_

Interlude, Part One:

_Into the Fire_

"_Winchester, there's still a little girl in there!" Chief sounds frantic._

"_Impossible!" Dean protests. "I swear, Chief, I got everyone out, even the Goddamn cat."_

"_The mom says her daughter's not here!"_

_  
Dean turns to stare at the house in horror, watching as Manny and Greg try to hose it down. A window explodes, and the fire roars louder as more oxygen feeds it._

"_I'm going back in," Dean yells, pulling on the oxygen mask and helmet. _

_  
"Nobody could survive something like that," Chief hollers, his huge hand clamping down on Dean's shoulder. "Winchester, that poor girl won't make it. I'm sorry, but I'm not losing any of my men today. You're staying here."_

_  
"The hell I am!" Dean jerks away, panic gripping him. He has to save the child, has to get to her. This is his job, and he will do it if it kills him._

_Literally._

"_That wasn't a suggestion, that was an order." Chief's voice is steely. "Don't even think about it."_

"_I'm sorry, sir," Dean says, "but I already did." _

_And then he sprints as fast as he can, ignoring Chief's calls for him to stop, ignoring Lyle when he tries to slow him down, ignoring everything but the burning building in front of him. He bursts through the crumbling front door and immediately gasps from the suffocating heat—it still surprises him, every single time. _

"_If I were a little girl trapped in a burning house," he mutters to himself, ducking to avoid a falling beam, "where would I be?"_

_The stairs are already halfway destroyed but he manages to get to the top, to douse some flames. Knowing he'll need to go to the hospital at this rate anyway, he tugs off the oxygen mask and hollers,_

_  
"Hello! Is anybody there? I'm here to help!"_

"_Hello, Dean," a calm voice says. He spins, surprised to find himself staring at a pretty woman with dark skin and huge green eyes. The fire seems to melt away around her, the roar of it softens, disappears. _

"_Who are you?" Dean asks uncertainly, coughing as he inhales a second lungful of smoke and ash. "Am I supposed to save you?"_

_  
She laughs._

"_No, of course not. I do not need saving."_

"_Then why are you here?" _

"_I am sorry to invade your dream," she murmurs, "but this is a particularly unpleasant nightmare of a memory, isn't it? I haven't much choice, I'm afraid."_

"_What?" Dean is confused—where is the fire going? Why is everything suddenly becoming light, why is there grass everywhere and some old stone well standing in front of him?_

"_I'm going to warn you that when you wake up it won't be familiar," the woman sighs. "I haven't much time. Just listen to me: trust Sam. All right?"_

_  
"But I don't—"_

"_There are other places I must be." The woman smiles disarmingly. "Just embrace the change, Dean. It will do you some good, I believe."_

"_I—"_

"_Goodbye." _

_  
She waves a slender hand once, and suddenly the fire is surrounding him again. He smells smoke._

_It clears a little, and through it he sees himself hunched in the bathroom, face in hands. He sees Grace looking terrified, leaning in so she can touch a strange scar on his side. Sees tears in his own eyes as Mom bends down to give him a hug._

_  
"What the hell kind of screwed up dream is this?" he demands, coughing as he inhales more smoke, as flames lick his boots. "I don't understand."_

_It echoes when he says it, and he seems to be floating away from the fire now, the echoing filling his head, ringing in his ears._

_I don't understand…I don't understand…I don't understand…_

_--_

Dean's eyes fly open and he draws a shaky breath, reaching up a hand to wipe off the cold sweat beading on his brow.

He'd been having the strangest nightmare—it had started off familiar but quickly morphed into something even more terrifying than usual. Who had that woman been, anyways?

It takes him a few minutes to realize the ceiling he is staring at is not his own.

_What the hell? _he wonders, sitting up and squinting around the strange room. It looks…like a motel room, really, not that he has much experience with motels, per se. It's just sort of seedy-looking and the bed is uncomfortable and…well, it _feels _like a room that would be in a motel, if it makes any kind of sense at all (which he suspects it doesn't). A quick once-over reveals that there's another bed in the room and a couple of duffle bags off to the side. Dean frowns, unable to recall coming here—wherever _here _is. How drunk did he _get _last night, anyways? All he can remember is having a killer headache, leaving Sam at the bar to go off with some girl named Starla or whatever, and then getting into a car and driving…well, it just sort of blanks after that.

But he's pretty sure he went home. Seriously, he's never just woken up somewhere and not _known _where he was or how he got there. It's scary.

"Good," a familiar voice calls. "You're up." _Oh, thank God. Sam's here. _Dean can never remember being so glad to see his younger brother in his life—he means that sincerely. He and Sam aren't exactly the best of buddies or anything, which is why the reason the kid wants Dean to be his best man remains a mystery.

"Hey," Dean says weakly, frowning a little as he surveys his brother more thoroughly. Sam is holding coffee and a bag of what looks like fast food—and he doesn't look remotely pissed off. At least, he doesn't look like he had to 'rescue' Dean from a girl and sober him up or clean up his puke or anything. Sam looks pretty calm, although there's something strange about him. Something in his eyes or whatever.

"So, any visits from the witch last night?' Sam eyes him, passing over the coffee. "I didn't hear anything, and you said you'd wake me up. Did she not come or something? Or did you get her?"

Dean stares at his brother, utterly confused.

"Uh, sorry. Come again?" _I must have gotten more drunk than I thought._

"Selenamaridra Jackson, the wishing well? Does that ring a bell?" Sam looks kinda annoyed. "Look dude, I'm not in the mood for any screwing around."

"Neither am I," Dean says, scowling. "I have no clue what the hell you're talking about!"

"Oh God." Sam stares at him, then suddenly kicks the nightstand, throws down the fast-food and says, "God_dammit, _Dean!"

"What?"

"You said this wouldn't happen!" Sam now kicks Dean's bed. "You moron, I should have known not to listen to you!"

Helplessly, Dean looks on as his brother carries on about curses and witches and promises Dean apparently made.

_I must still be dreaming, _Dean decides as Sam takes out a knife and starts stabbing it over and over again into the nightstand, his face etched with a dark kind of fury Dean's never seen before. _Either that, or I'm really, really, REALLY drunk._

"Um," Dean says carefully when Sam's finally stopped ranting under his breath, "would you mind telling me what the hell this is all about? I don't get it—where _are _we?"

"Oh." Sam stares at him. "I…_God, _Dean."

"What did I do now?" Dean feels kind of bad, actually. He's only been home a day and he's already messing up Sam's life again. "Look man, I'm really sorry for whatever it was. I promise I'm not going to ruin the wedding, okay?"

Sam stares at him.

"What wedding?" he demands.

"Okay, _now _who's screwing around? Seriously man, not funny." Dean stands, squinting around. "You didn't answer before. Where the hell are we?"

"New York," Sam sighs.

"What?" Dean yelps. "Dude, we can't—that's impossible, we can't be in New York! How did we get here—and oh, God. Jess is going to kill you! Well, after she kills _me _that is, but—"

"Jess?" Sam's face is completley white, his eyes wide. "Dean, I think that…"

"We gotta get back to Kansas, man. _Now_." Dean paces anxiously.

"No," Sam say quietly, looking very, very sad. "We don't."

"You'll miss you're wedding!" Dean cries. "The one you begged me to be there for? Hello, I took a week off work and everything."

"Dean." Sam looks even paler, if that's possible, and—dude, are those _tears _brimming in his eyes? "We have to talk."

--

"Sam, this isn't funny."

"I'm not trying to be." Sam shakes his head. "Look, I know this must be really scary, but don't worry. I'm gonna try to fix it. We'll get you back to normal."

"Normal?"

"You have amnesia or something. Or…God, I don't know, but there is something wrong with you. That witch screwed with your mental health."

"My mental…no! _You're _the one who's crazy! _Ghosts? _That's freaking impossible, okay?" Dean stalks off to the other side of the room. "I don't understand," he mutters. "You're not acting like yourself."

"What do you mean _I'm _not acting like myself?" Sam demands. "You're the one who's gone crazy!"

"Says the guy who believes he hunts ghosts for a living." Dean snorts. "Dude, newsflash: you're like a year away form being a lawyer, you're engaged, you're about to start some dream life out in California and boy are Mom and Dad proud."

"What?" Sam is now squinting at him. "This doesn't make any sense though," he says after a moment.

"You're telling me." Dean leans down to look through one of the duffels and yelps as he discovers a gun. "My God—what do you have this for?"

"For hunting!" Sam looks thoroughly exasperated. "Put it down if you don't remember how to use it, okay?" Obligingly, Dean tosses it back down, shifting through a litany of strange things like salt and crosses and books of Latin before he locates a change of clothes. "What are you doing?" Sam asks.

"What does it look like?" Dean tugs off his shirt. "Changing."

Sam glances at him briefly, then does a double take as the shirt slides over his head.

"What the—Dean, take your shirt back off!"

"_Excuse _me?"

"Do it!"

Too creeped out by this strange, scary Sam to disobey him, Dean rips the shirt back off and eyes his little brother nervously as he walks over and starts to examine him.

"Your scars," Sam whispers. "They're gone." He runs a finger down Dean's shoulder and exclaims, "And your stitches! It's like they were never there!"

"Dude, this is kind of weird," Dean decides, edging away from Sam. "What stitches? What scars?"

"You're not him," Sam says wonderingly, staring at Dean as though transfixed. "You're not Dean!"

"Yes I am! Sam, what are you frigging _on?"_

Sam flops down, staring wordlessly at Dean.

"So," he says at long last. "Tell me about yourself."

--

"I don't understand," Sam says, and Dean feels a strange jolt of déjà vu. "Mom is _alive? _How is that possible?" Dean opens his mouth to answer, but Sam continues on. "And Dad and Jess, too? And you're a _firefighter?_ I just…what the hell did Dean _wish _for, anyways?"

"Sam, this joke has really stopped being funny, okay?" Dean stands again, pacing. "I'm taking the car and going home."

"What? Dean—no!"

But too late. Dean's already jumped up, snagged the car keys from off the nightstand and headed out the door.

Two seconds later he's back, white-faced and wide-eyed.

"Dude," he says, "please tell me that Impala sitting in the parking space outside the door isn't ours."

"Uh, of course it is," Sam says, looking puzzled.

"But—I crashed it when I was sixteen. Completely demolished it!"

"Well, not here you didn't." Sam shakes his head. "Look, I get that this isn't your fault or anything, all right? I'm sorry I freaked out on you."

"I don't understand," Dean cries, echoing Sam. "This is impossible—this is _crazy._ Why aren't I home?"

"Well, it has to do with the wish my Dean made at the wishing well, I guess," Sam sighs. "Though to be honest, man, I have no idea if we can break this curse or what…but I think you should be back home tomorrow. Everyone else's personalities changed every day."

"Please tell me your Dean will be nice to everyone," Dean says, suddenly looking worried. "I'm already in so deep with Dad and Grace, I'd prefer not to go back and have them pissed all over again."

"Uh, to be honest, he'll probably be having some kind of breakdown," Sam says softly. "Seeing Mom alive…and Dad…he's not going to handle that well." He pauses, frowning. "Who's Grace?"

"Our sister," Dean says, looking puzzled. "Remember her?"

Sam's eyes widen even further than they have been.

"We have a _sister _where you're from?"

"Of course we do. And another little brother, too—whoa, Sam, are you feeling all right?"

"This is insane," Sam whispers. "Why is everyone _alive_?

--

They've traded their stories a hundred times over by now, but each of them—especially Dean—is having trouble really processing.

"Sam," he say quietly, "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." Sam shrugs it off. "Really."

"No," Dean says, "it's not." He lays a hand on Sam's arm hesitantly, feeling weird but oddly big brotherly—an emotion he hasn't experienced for years. "You guys have a really shitty life, you know that?" Sam coughs, masking something that sounds suspiciously like a sob mixed with a laugh.

"Gee, thanks." He pauses to survey Dean. "And you know, you have a really awesome life, right?"

"I wouldn't go that far." Dean sighs, folding his arms, staring down at his feet. "I mean, _you _do. You've always been the golden boy, and now you're gonna lead the golden life…and me? Man, I'm the frigging black sheep of the family. Everything I do pisses Dad off and the only one I'm even close to is Gracie—and even _she's _not happy with me right now."

"But Mom and Dad are _alive._" Sam sounds and looks so wistful when he says it, it's enough to make Dean feel like an A-Grade asshole for whining about his trivial problems. "I mean, you grew up in a _home. _I bet you played sports and had a home-cooked meal every night and went to prom and…" He trails off, looking sad, suddenly. "Why didn't the Demon come? Why wasn't I Chosen?"

"I don't know," Dean says, because it's true. "I just can't believe this kind of stuff is _real._"

"Well," Sam says after a moment, shaking his head, "I've got research to do. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"The library," Sam says simply. "But first, I gotta make a phone call."

--

"Jo?" Dean watches as Sam frowns, looking puzzled. "What are you doing back home? Oh—yeah, sorry. This is Sam." A long pause, and then he laughs shortly. "Bet that didn't go over well with Ellen. No, no…yes. No, we haven't. Uh, well he's actually why I'm calling."

"Who _is _that?" Dean asks Sam, ignoring him as his brother motions for him to be quiet.

"No, Jo, he's…well, I _think _he's okay. It's really complicated, actually. Would you mind putting Ash on?" Another long pause in which Sam's expression jumps from exasperation to amusement and back again. "Okay, okay, I know. Well, see, there's this wishing well in Upstate New York, and—oh. Yeah, _the _wishing well. Of course we took the job on…and, uh, yeah. He made a wish, and…no, Jo, don't come down here. That won't help anything. Jo! Put Ash on!"

Dean sighs, standing and heading to dig in the duffle bags while his brother argues ceaselessly with the person at the other end of the phone. One bag is filled almost entirely with rock salt, a few guns, and knives—which is just creepy, Ghostbusters or no—and the other one has the clothes and the books and the _other _gun. Dean picks up one leather-bound especially worn-looking one and flips it open, running a finger down the first weathered page.

_I went to Missouri and I learned the truth, _the first sentence reads in Dad's slanted, Yoda-like handwriting. Curious, Dean skims through the book, eyes widening as he reads about various different supernatural stuff Dad apparently knows how to waste. He's halfway through a page featuring something called a Djinn when Sam's loud, angry voice startles him.

"You can't help him anymore than I can!" Sam hollers. "Didn't you hear Ash? He says the only information he's been able to dig up is that we gotta wait this out—Jo, _no. _What? I…Jo, that's not fair. I was frigging possessed, you can't use that to guilt trip me!" A long, long pause in which Sam looks incredibly guilty, then sighs long and loud. "All right, all right. Come then—but he won't know who you are so don't expect him to. Holiday Inn, right off of Victor-Egypt road…Yeah, right back at you." He flips the phone closed forcefully and then mutters, "_Dammit._"

"What," Dean asks, "was _that _all about?"

"Put it this way: my Dean has really weird taste in girls," Sam informs him inexplicably, before he stands, shrugging on a jacket and grabbing the keys to the Impala. "All right, _now _we can go to the library. I talked to a family friend, Ash, and he would know anything there is to know about this, but he says so far the only info he's found is just waiting for the curse to run its course. He told me to do some research on my own but he'll keep looking himself."

"And who's coming here?" Dean asks as he follows Sam to the car. Sam sighs.

"Jo," he says simply. "Though I have no idea what she thinks she can do."

"Jo's a girl?"

"Short for Joanna," Sam explains, sliding in to the driver's seat. "Don't worry. If she drives out here, it'll take her a couple days at least, so you should be long gone—and even if she _does _get a flight, she won't get here until tonight."

"Wow." Dean sighs, staring up at the Impala's ceiling. "This is going to be really weird day." Sam pauses, closing his eyes briefly.

"You're telling me," he mutters finally, and then the Impala roars to life.

--

The day passes quickly, and it's filled with books.

Dean hates research; he never liked school, and this just reminds of dreary, endless days in stuffy, boring, Lawrence High. Days where he would sit and stare out a window as some teacher droned on about World War I or parabolas or whatever and think that he was meant for something else, something exciting, something meaningful.

Not this. Not small-town life with the same boring, mindless idiots he'd known since he was a little kid. Not the same routine over and over and over again.

He had wanted—still does, in fact—for his life to mean something, he'd wanted to actually do some good in the world.

It was why he'd become a firefighter, actually. Dean isn't stupid; he hasn't ever wanted the job for glory or heroism…he just has so much Goddamn energy. Might as well put it to good use.

Firefighting, he thinks, is a depressing job. You see a lot of death, a lot of destruction, a lot of fear…but there's something so beautiful about soothing it, as strange as it sounds. Like the time he stopped what could have been a horrible fire just before it got out of control, salvaging this ancient old house a family had lived in forever. Or when this little boy drew him a picture of a stick-figure version of himself holding a stick-figure Firefighter Dean's hand after Dean rescued the kid and his pregnant mom. When the water finally douses the flames for good, when everybody gets out alive, when dawn beaks and night seems to just melt away, leaving only the heady scent of smoke behind…that's what it makes it all worth it, really.

But even that isn't enough, not in the long run. Dean saves lives, yes, but what about the people who don't make it? How do you explain to a mother that her daughter is dead? How do you rush into a burning building without wondering if you'll make it out alive, if you'll never see your father again and apologize, if the last thing your family will remember you saying is, _You all are pathetic, _if you wasted your life after all?

At times Dean can love it, firefighting, but most of the time, he feels like he settled or something. He feels like there was supposed to be more, like there's a puzzle piece missing. At first that piece feels insignificant—like, _Well, what's the big deal? I did all this work and it looks just fine. It's only one piece, after all. _But then maybe after awhile, you look at the puzzle and the missing corner of blue sky naggles at you, makes you wish you could find it so you could finish the job. It's fine, but it's not the best it could be. You worked hard for it, but maybe if you'd hunted under the couch cushions a little longer, bugged your messy little sister a little more, you would have found the piece, made the puzzle whole.

"Dean?"

He jerks his head up sharply to stare at this brother who is not his brother, this familiar yet utterly unfamiliar Sam. Sam has always been so_ happy_, as a baby, as a kid—even now, as an adult. He's the funny, intelligent, sensitive one, the handsome one. Dean hadn't been kidding when he'd called Sam the golden boy of the family earlier, because it's true. Sam has everything: the wonderful fiancée, the popularity, the kindness, the soon-to-be college degree…the kid casts a long shadow.

This Sam is just…he's so _mature, _it's almost frightening. Sam's always been responsible and everything, but this dude is so capable, so confident. Even when he's flipping out he's rationalizing it; and he's _strong, _too. He's also got this darkness to him, this sadness and worry in his eyes that tell Dean that even though the kid's already told him some of the tough shit he's seen, Dean doesn't know the half of it.

"Yeah?" Dean finally responds, running a hand hastily through his hair.

"You okay, man? You've sort of been staring at the same page for the past fifteen minutes."

"I'm fine," Dean says quickly. "Just thinking."

"Yeah, me too," Sam admits, "but I think I got something."

"Really?" This peaks Dean's interest. "What?"

"Well, it's not much, but there's a kind of curse mentioned on this website." Sam taps at his laptop's screen. "Apparently, it either creates or simply opens the door to alternate realities. It suggests that there are always several ways are lives could have planned out, different designs fate had. The curse rips the curse-ee from one reality to the next."

"Does it say how to break it?"

"Burn the cursed object or kill the caster of the curse." Sam laughs dryly. "Well, since we're talking about a wishing well, burning it will be kind of hard, and as for killing the caster…well, she's already dead."

"Well, there must be something.," Dean says worriedly. "I mean…you must deal with crap like this all the time!"

"This is sort of a first for me. Burning and salting bones, no problem. Need a demon exorcised, I'm your guy. But alternate realities? I'm not that much of an expert."

"What are we supposed to do?" Dean mutters. "I—look…could I see the wishing well?" Sam frowns.

"Well, sure, I guess so. What are you going to do?" he asks.

"I don't know," Dean sighs. "Make a wish or something?" Sam grimaces.

"Dude," he says, "don't even _joke _about something like that."

--

Dean stares at the old well, the same one from his dream, and shudders slightly.

"That witch was in my dream last night," Dean says to Sam as they both stare at the water, slightly entranced.

"Whoa." Sam suddenly, rubs his temples, backing away. "We…we gotta be careful. My Dean said the water sort of…compelled him or something."

"God." Dean shudders. "Let's just go—I don't even know why I wanted to come here. This place creeps me out."

By now, the sky is already darkening, and it startles them to realize neither of them have eaten anything since this morning, so they hurry to find a diner. Dean picks at his meat loaf before abandoning it altogether, and stares down at his folded hands.

This day has just been freaking exhausting. And to top it all off, he's missed Sam's wedding.

Great. Really fucking great.

"Stop brooding," Sam suggests as he takes a long sip of beer. "It'll all be over soon."

"I don't get it," Dean says. "I get stuck here, your Dean gets stuck there, we spend a useless day trying and failing to fix it…what the hell is the point of it? What does it mean?"

"Maybe nothing for you." Sam shrugs. "My Dean was the one who made the wish, after all, so maybe you're not really affected by it."

Dean doesn't know what to think about this, so he nods, takes a sip of his own beer, and waits until Sam finishes his spaghetti so they can go back to the motel and Dean can finally go to sleep and maybe forget any of this ever happened.

When they do get back to the room, Dean resolutely flops down onto the same bed he woke up in, not even bothering to get undressed, and announces,

"My head is killing me."

Sam snorts, moving into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. Dean has the light off before he comes back out, and as Sam slides into his own bed he says,

"Hey, Dean..."

"Yeah?"

"This entire day…you haven't called me Sammy. Not once."

"Huh?" Dean props himself up on his elbow. "I never call you that anymore. You asked me to stop when you were five."

There is a long pause, and then Sam says quietly,

"Oh." Another pause, and he adds, "We're not close, where you're from, are we?"

"No," Dean admits, a little sadly. "We just…we used to fight. Now, we sort of tolerate each other."

There is an even longer silence than before and then Sam says, quite firmly,

"Sorry, man, but that really sucks."

"Yeah, I guess it kind of does," Dean agrees after a few seconds.

"Really. I mean, it's not like you and me see eye to eye on everything here, but God, I don't know what I'd do without you. You've spent your whole life being there for me, teaching me stuff, being my big brother. You're my best friend, you know?"

Dean stares up at the ceiling, trying to understand and failing. The only person he's ever been close to is Grace—not that he'd trade that for anything—but the wistfulness in Sam's voice as he talks about _his _Dean kind of makes _this _Dean's heart clench.

"Sorry," Dean says, a little hoarsely.

"Well, I guess there's a price for everything," Sam says at long last. "As long as you're happy, right?"

"Right." Dean stares at the ceiling, then closes his eyes. "Hey, when you see your Dean again, after this whole thing is over…tell him I say hey, okay?"

"Uh, all right," Sam concedes after a moment, sounding a little perplexed.

"And also tell him," Dean adds, "he's lucky."

"_What?_"

"Look, I don't envy the hell you've put up with," Dean say bluntly. "Don't get me wrong, I know you guys deal with stuff no one should ever have to. It's just...I spend my life living in this state of inadequacy. I'm kind of pathetic, really—I'm man enough to admit it. But your Dean…man, from what little you've said of him, I can already tell he's got a better grip on who he is than I ever have." Dean sighs a little, keeping his eyes shut.

"Okay," Sam says softly after a moment, sounding a little surprised, even a little enlightened. "I'll tell him."

"And one last thing," Dean adds.

"What?"

"G'night, Sammy."

A pause, and then Sam's voice, sounding sad and amused and like he's missing his big brother all at once, responds,

"Sleep well, Dean."

Dean breathes deep as sleep claims him, dragging him away from this reality, back into a dream that isn't filled with confusion or witches or wishing wells, but something bright, something familiar.

_The sun peeking through the clouds as the last stars fade from the sky, Dean standing next to Chief as the last flames die down._

_  
A father hugging Dean so tightly he thinks his ribs may crack, thanking him for saving his family. _

_Running into a blazing building and cheating death, walking through fire without getting burned, saving a woman's life._

_The way Mom's arms feel around him when he visits for the first time in over a year. The rumble of Dad's voice as he reads the sports page aloud. The eagerness in Simon's eyes as he shows Dean his latest book. Grace's smile when he tells her the dirtiest joke about firefighters he knows. The sound of Sam's voice when he says, "I'm glad you came, Dean. I'm so freaking glad you came." _

_Dean walks towards a house in Lawrence, Kansas, and he thinks to himself that maybe he will never find be what he was meant to be—not in this reality anyways. (It kind of helps to know that in another place, a different reality, there is a Dean who is doing what he was born to do.)_

_Maybe he'll never be the perfect son or brother, maybe he'll never be truly happy._

_But it doesn't matter, not really, because this life is the hand he was dealt. He may not be able to lay down a royal flush, but still. A straight flush is nothing to sniff at, either—in fact, it's about as good as you can damn well get._

A/N again:

Once again, reviews would make my day! And heh heh, before I forget, I recently learned how to use Windows Movie Maker and so I decided I would do a trial project and see how it went. I was midway through writing this chapter, and, inspired, I decided to make a trailer for _Careful What You Wish For _because I am a dork and I had some time to waste. So yes, it's really crappy, but I was psyched because I found a Metallica song that worked and I had fun doing it, and the gist of it is it's on YouTube if you want to watch it and point and laugh at me. It can be found at:

http colon // www . youtube. com / watch?v equals ioI1sqo14r8

As I'm sure you're aware, won't post website addresses, so just take out the spaces and replace colon with an actual colon and equals with an eqaul sign you should be good to go. xD


	5. Interlude, Part Two

_A/N_: Thanks again for all the great feedback, guys! I'm having so much fun writing this and it really helps to know that people are enjoying it. So anyways, here's Interlude Part Two--I've been working on it for a long time, still not sure I'm entirely happy with it, but ah well. This update was due, and I hope it works out. I must admit it was really interesting/amusing/fun for me to explore Delia's personality--I had the best time writing her dream sequence, as well as her interactions with Sam. Oh, and on a total tangent, episode 2x20? Yeah, I officially loved it and consequently have been spazzing about if for the last 48-hours. Go Kripke. You do alternate realities/Dean wishes sooo much better than I ever could.

As for this fic, the next chapter might take a couple of weeks--I've got a big AP test coming up as well as a major IB English essay, so I think I'm gonna have to take a very short, self-imposed hiatus so I don't fail anything. As always, thank you so much for reading and please review!

**_ooo_**

**Interlude, Part Two:**

_**What Sisters Are For **_

_The bar is crowded and smoky and she's already won like five hundred dollars, and dammit if Sam isn't being a pain in the ass.  
_

"_Who's this?" the guy asks, eyeing Sam up and down in a way Delia doesn't exactly appreciate. What was this punk's name again—Allan? Anthony? _

"_This here is my kid sister, Sammy," Delia says, narrowing her eyes at her sister and nodding curtly, her patented signal for, "Beat it, princess; I'm earning your lunch money." Sam, typical little brat, ignores the signal, merely raising an eyebrow at her older sister. "Sammy, this is…um, Aaron."_

"_Zach, actually," the guy corrects, though he seems a little too drunk to really care if she remembers his name or not. "Nice to meet you, Sammy." Sam looks faintly ill. _

"_Yeah, you too." A pause as Sam's eyes narrow at Delia, judgment darkening her usually gentle gaze. "Enjoying yourself, Dee?" God, does Little Miss Morality want them to starve or something? _

"_Zach was just teaching me how to play pool, Sam," Delia announces pointedly, making an effort to giggle. "I'll be done in a sec, okay?"_

"_She's a real natural," Zach informs Sam, as though this is big news. _

_  
"I'll just bet," Sam says sourly. "Look, Dee, we've been here half the night. I'm tired of watching you learn to play poker, throw darts, drink shots, and shoot pool—can we just freaking go already?"_

"_Hey, Zach." Delia turns sharply, smiling endearingly up at him. "Would you mind getting us a couple drinks? Please?"_

"_No problem, sweetheart." He pushes off of the pool table, leans in close to her. "Maybe after this we can finish this game somewhere more…private."_

_  
"Oh, don't think that's getting you off the hook," Delia says lightly. "I haven't forgotten our little bet. I win three, you pay up, cold cash."_

"_I can make it worth your while." The guy's breath reeks of stale alcohol. He leans in even closer, so his lips are just brushing her ear. "Two hundred more if we take the pool game to my place."_

"_Is that so?" Delia smiles, just enough to mask her internal disgust. "We'll see. After you get the drinks, that is." Zach smirks, then turns, moving slowly towards the bar._

"_Okay, so what's got your panties in a twist tonight, Samantha?" Delia demands as she turns to face her little sister. "You got a problem with earning money?"_

"_Delia, you're practically whoring yourself," Sam spits. "And the way you…God, how many guys have you hustled tonight? Ten? Fifteen?"_

"_Seventeen, including this one." Delia shrugs. "Do you have a point?"_

"_It's disgusting," Sam announces. "You're better than this, Delia, and I'm sick and tired of watching you sell yourself short. We could do actual work, you know—it doesn't have to be cheating innocent guys out of their money in shitty bars and credit card scams and—"_

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up there for a minute, sweetheart." Delia advances on her sister, anger tensing her shoulders, clenching her fists. Sammy, at around 5'11, has three inches on her—but Delia never lets her forget who the big sister is. "Don't you judge me. We got enough to deal with when we're annihilating the undead—hustling is easy, and hustling fucking works. I can earn us enough to pay for a room for a week, to get us three square meals a day, to get a gallon of gas, and I can do it in one night. You wanna live honest, you pay the price." Delia takes yet another step closer. "And sorry there, Sammy, but living honest means we don't have enough to so much as buy a pack of Ho-Hos, never mind a shower or a clean bed. I dunno about you, but this works for me."_

"_I know why you do this," Sam says quietly. "You just scare me, is all."_

"_Scare you." Delia laughs shortly. "Because I take innocent people's money? They're not that angelic, Samantha. If you knew half the things that came out of some of these bastard's mouths—"_

"_No," Sam cuts her off. "It's not that."_

_  
"Then what is it?"_

_  
"You're just good at it," she says simply. "Way too freaking good at it, actually. And I'm scared you're going to forget that you have more potential than batting your eyelashes at some jackass in a bar."_

"_I don't need you to watch out for me, Sam," Delia says softly. "I can take care of myself."_

_Sam laughs then, mockingly almost. _

"_Yeah, Delia, sure you can. Dad would be so proud, wouldn't he?"_

_Sam's slammed up against the wall in a split second; even Delia's surprised at how fast she moves. _

"_You wanna make this personal, little sister, you go right on ahead," Delia hisses through gritted teeth, her fists clenching Sam's shoulders, "but don't you dare bring Dad into this. Not you."_

_The silence that follows seems to echo throughout the bar; Sam looks half-angry, half-ashamed (but not sorry), and Delia feels like shit._

_Even as she turns to stalk away, she can feel the old, bitter anger, the sadness, rising in her, making her miss Dad so much it aches. _

_The thing about all of it, she thinks angrily as she stomps outside, is that Sam is right, of course Sam's right. Damn college girl, too smart for her own good. _

_She's especially right, Delia acknowledges bitterly, about Dad._

_Because if Dad could see her now…well, it'd break his heart, really. _

_So maybe Dee's a little more reckless than usual lately. What of it? She can knock any loser who thinks he can mess with her flat in two seconds, easy. She's no little girl—Sam of all people should remember that. _

_And speaking of losers, that Zach guy is probably back. Might as well go and finish what she started (though she won't take him up on the offer to go back to his place; even Delia Winchester has some virtue left). She turns to go, and almost runs smack into some wide-eyed chick with a serene smile plastered across her face._

"_Delia," she says softly. "Hello." _

"_Uh, do I know you?" Delia asks, frowning as the air around the chick brightens, as the grim, dirty cement of the city and the noise of the bar fades and a cool breeze lifts Delia's hair._

"_No," the chick says simply. "But do not let it trouble you. I am merely here to warn you that you will not wake up where you went to sleep."_

_  
"Right." Delia rolls her eyes. "Look, I don't swing that way, so…Hey! Hey, where are we?" Suddenly, they are standing on a green, fog-covered hill top beside a weathered well, and the chick is humming a little to herself. _

"You are a hunter, Delia Winchester," she says as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. "You handle things that would break others—destroy them, even—with remarkable ease. You must remember that, when you awake."

**  
**_"What do you mean?" Delia feels worried now as she eyes the chick, dread settling on her shoulders like a weight. "Are you…are you a witch?" she adds suspiciously, nodding at the unmistakable aura that still brightens the air._

"_I was," the chick responds. "You will come to know me as Selena." _

"And what are you doing here, Selena?"

_  
"Sam will have to explain that one to you," Selena says, nodding as she crosses to stand on the opposite side of the well. "I will tell you what I have told others before you: embrace the change. And now, I must go."_

_  
"What?" Delia yelps. "Wait just a minute—"_

_  
"Good-bye, Delia," Selena calls softly, her voice fading. "Good luck."_

"_No—just—" Delia lunges for Selena, reaching out to stop her, but her fingers touch only air, fumble with nothing. "…the hell?" Delia mutters, staring at the spot Selena was just standing in. "This is just way too messed up." It's true. Delia's dreams are rarely surreal; they're mostly memories or matter-of-fact hunts, like salt-and-burning or something. It's not common that people pop in and out with no explanation._

_  
Striding irritably over to the well for some reason, she gazes down into the water, admiring the cool, darkness of it, the way it shimmers softly in the light. As she peers at it, a flicker of movement catches her eye—and all at once, it's like she's looking down from the ceiling or something (though she's not pinned to it, or on fire for that matter) watching as Sammy puts a pistol to some guy's head, sees the same guy sitting with Sam at McDonald's, then slinging her over his shoulder as she shakes, in the throes of a vision._

_  
"Sam!" Delia yells, reaching down to try to touch her sister, to protect her. The panic that's coursing through her isn't logical but it continues to overwhelm her as she feels herself leaving the dream, swimming up through the fog of sleep to consciousness. _

"_Sammy," Delia repeats softly, even as the world begins to shift into focus. "Hold on, Sammy." _

--

Delia blinks slowly as she wakes, turning over onto her stomach for a moment and briefly pressing her face into the pillow.

_Please, please, please, _she thinks inexplicably. _Please, God, oh please._

Slowly, she pushes herself up, chancing a glance around, then immediately relaxes.

So it was just a dream after all.

The motel room is the exact same one she went to sleep in the night before; she's even in the exact same bed. Her gaze drifts over to Sam's bed, and as usual the covers are pulled up almost all the way over her head, just a tuft of dark hair peeking out.

"Good," Delia mutters triumphantly. "This means I get first shower!"

Sammy is usually the earlier riser, but Delia's not about to let a good opportunity slip by. Yawning, she slips out of bed and into the bathroom and starts the water, checking around for her shampoo.

Huh. She could have sworn she left it there yesterday…but oh well. Sam probably used it or something, knowing her.

Delia likes long showers, and it's rare she gets enough time for a really good one, so this is kind of a luxury as far as she's concerned. She spends maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes today, softly singing a little AC/DC and taking extra time to scrub her hair. When she steps out of the shower, she towels her hair off, wraps the other towel around her, and heads back to the bedroom to grab a change of clothes.

She opens the door, takes one look into the room, and—dammit, she can't help it okay?—screams her head off.

Sitting on _Sam's_ bed is some freaky-tall _guy, _who looks up from _Sam's _laptop and promptly screams right back.

"Ah!" Delia chokes, moving to stumble back into the bathroom and then, thinking of better of it, grabs the nearest gun (sitting on top of the TV) and aims. "Who the hell are you?"

"Look, calm down," the guy says, standing slowly and raising his huge hands like, 'Hey, I come in peace' or something. _Jesus, he's even taller than I thought! _

"Calm down? Calm _down?_" Delia's so pissed she can hardly remember to keep clutching the towel around her. "That's real funny there, dude. Just tell me what you've done with my sister and then maybe I won't shoot you full of silver, got it?" The guy blinks, then grins a little.

"Okay, this is going to sound weird," he says, "but I think I _am _your sister."

"What?" Delia demands, frowning a little, then shakes her head and holds the gun out a little steadier. "Cute," she mutters. "Real fuckin' cute. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play head-games with a girl when she's aiming a gun at your head?"

"I'm not playing head-games," he says impatiently. "My name's Sam Winchester, okay?"

"I'm warning you!" Delia cocks the gun, narrowing her eyes. "If you don't tell me what—"

"Your birthday is January 24th!" the guy yells, looking desperate. "You call me Sammy even when I tell you not to! You drive a 1967 Impala and hum Metallica when you get nervous and you can dig up a grave in fifteen minutes flat, ten if you're under pressure."

Delia stares.

"And you know this _how?_" she demands at long last.

"Because," the guy says, "I'm _Sam. _Same person, different packaging, okay?" Cautiously, Delia takes a few steps forward, crossing the room to stand face to face with him. She looks him up and down, gun still aimed carefully at him, then stares purposefully into his eyes, knowing she'll find any answers she might require there.

Holy crap.

"Sammy?" she whispers, eyes wide. "Jesus Christ."

She stalks back across the room, setting down the gun and swallowing.

"Hey, it's okay," Sam assures her. "Really, I'll explain everything in a minute, all right? Why don't you get dressed?"

"Sure," Delia says after a moment, because what else can she do? "Do you know where my stuff is?"

"Not here," Sam sighs. "Uh…well, I have a feeling your normal clothes won't fit."

"My normal clothes?"

"Uh—crap." He runs a hand through his wavy, familiar hair. "Okay…you have your own pajamas, right?" Delia nods, confused. "Wear the pants," Sam suggests, roots through a duffle, then tosses her an oversized Led Zeppelin shirt.

"Okay, what the—?"

"Just get dressed," Sam repeats, his voice very steady and very calm. "I promise, I'll tell you what's going on."

"Fine," Delia snaps, spinning on her heel angrily.

"Wait!" Sam calls as she starts to slam the bathroom door. She turns to glare at him, and he smiles endearingly, dimples flashing in a creepily familiar fashion. "What's your name?" he asks gently.

"Delia," she says quietly after a moment. "But you mostly call me Dee."

Then she shuts the door firmly with a snap.

--

"This," Delia announces, "is freakin' weird."

"That's what I keep hearing," Sam sighs. "I know it's a crazy story."

"Nah, actually I can totally see this happening." Delia winces. "I just can't believe there's a male version of me! What's his name again?"

"Dean," Sam says quietly.

"Dean." Delia nods approvingly. "Excellent name. He a good big brother?"

"The best," Sam says, chuckling a little. "Even if he is a pain in the ass."

"Whoa there, sweetheart," Delia snorts. "Younger siblings are _always _more annoying. That's just the hard, cold facts."

"Not so," Sam counters. "We're not as bossy. I'm sure the female Sam would agree."

"Sure she would," Delia laughs. "But that hardly counts. Like you said, you're the same person, which is actually kinda freaky." Sam hoots with laughter.

"Not _nearly _as freaky as the female version of Dean," he says, smiling widely. "Boy, when he gets back, I am never letting him live this one down."

"_Well_," Delia sniffs, offended on Dean's behalf, "aren't you the little bitch."

Sam laughs, delighted.

"God, it's so good to frigging have you back," he says happily. "I mean, you're not a _guy, _but it's definitely his personality in there."

"I'm more of a girl than you think," Dee warns. "Just wait until we go out for breakfast or something. You'll see."

"Right."

"So." Delia leans in seriously, chin propped in hands, green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Let's talk business, shall we, Sammy? How close are you to figuring out how to stop the curse?"

"Not close at all." Sam winces. "I called Ash and everything, but he's got nothin'."

"Ash." Delia's eyes widen. "Wait, _everyone's _gender is swapped?"

"What?"

"Well, I know an _Ashleigh,_" Dee says, snorting disbelievingly. "I don't even want to imagine her in guy form."

"He's an incredibly strung-out genius," Sam says helpfully.

"So—Jesus, don't tell me—Joe and Eli are…?"

"Jo and Ellen." Sam laughs. "Jo being short for Joanna." Delia laughs outright.

"Hah, we'll see how Joe likes that one when I tell him." She looks fondly amused.

"But yeah, anyways, Ash is still looking," Sam continues. "And the other you and I didn't find anything much at the library yesterday except that _my _Dean is most likely getting shuffled around from alternate universe to alternate universe."

"The other me?" Dee is interested. "What was I like?"

"Well, you were a guy and your name was still Dean." Sam pauses, looks uncomfortable. "He got the normal life," he says softly. "You know. White-picket fence. Mom and Dad alive. Two extra siblings. I…I was supposed to be getting married."

"Whoa." Delia stares down at her hands, listening to the silence that fills the room. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Of course I am," Sam says gruffly, pulling away in a way Delia's Sam never does. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just…Look, do you want to talk about it or something?" Delia is feeling so sad, both for herself and her little sister—brother?—that she doesn't really notice when Sam stares at her, brow furrowed. "It's just that…I know it must have been rough, trying to handle all that on your own, without somebody there to look out for you, too. And hearing that somewhere Mom and Dad are…_alive—"_

"Uh, I'm _fine,_" Sam repeats, frown deepening. "I…look, let's just go get breakfast, all right? Then maybe I can call Ash again and see if anything's come up."

"Right then," Delia agrees, then frowns. "Sammy, since when do you not _want _to talk about something?"

"Dee," he says quietly, looking up to meet her gaze, "since when do you do chick-flick moments?"

--

The diner they walk to is one Sam insists they've been to before; it has some freaking weird Greek name, and the waitress seems real friendly.

A little _too _friendly, actually.

"Oh, darlin', isn't it nice to see you again!" she cries, leaning down to pour a little more coffee into Sam's already nearly full cup. Delia coughs pointedly, staring at her completely empty one, but the waitress—Erika, wasn't it?—ignores her. "Where'd that partner of yours get to?"

"Business trip," Sam explains, dimples flashing. "He'll be back in a couple days, then we're heading out."

"I see." The waitress raises an eyebrow at Dee. "And who's this?"

"My sister," Sam says. "Uh, I'd like scrambled eggs and bacon, please."

"Sure thing, darlin'."

"I'll have the pancakes," Delia announces, smirking up at the waitress. "Please and thank you, _darlin'._" The waitress looks vaguely annoyed, sniffs haughtily, and saunters off, shooting a parting all-together too suggestive glance back at Sam.

"What'd you do that for?" Sam asks. "She's nice."

"And totally in to you," Delia says, revolted. "Come on. You can do way better."

"Are you serious?" Sam snorts. "Usually, you'd be throwing either me or yourself at her." Delia looks disgusted.

"Please. I have _standards." _

"If you say so," Sam manages, choking on a laugh.

"Cute," Delia mutters. "Absolutely adorable."

"So." Sam takes a sip of his coffee, looking thoughtful. "What do you think we should do today?"

"Well, what about talking to some of the other victims again?" Delia suggests. "You said the one kid talks."

"We couldn't get anything out of him about what happened during the curse," Sam sighs. "He must have been bound not to talk about it because he started suffocating."

"What about that Kristen chick?"

"She's not talking at _all_, remember?"

"Well, I don't care," Dee announces. "I say we go see her."

"The curse will affect her the same way as Derek," Sam points out.

"Derek _talked_, Sam," Delia says, grinning slyly. "This girl can't, or won't, right?"

"Right."

"So what if she _writes _it out?"

"Whoa." Sam's eyes widen as he stares at Delia. "Dude. I never even thought of that!"

"That's why I'm the big sister," Delia says smugly. At that moment, Erika returns, Sam's food steaming cheerily and looking pretty decent, as far as small-town diner food goes.

"Scrambled eggs," the waitress announces, setting Sam's plate down on—_Christ, _is that lace doily? "And fresh coffee," she adds, once again filling Sam's cup to the brim.

"Thanks." Sam's huge smile is ridiculously adorable and Delia has to roll her eyes. Naturally. The kid has looks and that sweet, sensitive thing every girl goes for and hell if it's not gonna get old fast, watching him obliviously charm anything that looks at him sideways.

"Here," the waitress says brusquely, practically throwing Delia's plate at her. She then tosses a half-full pitcher of maple syrup down onto the table and stocks off before Delia can so much as yell, _Coffee! _

"I can tell we're just going to be the best of friends, me and Erika," Delia sighs, making an effort to un-stick the pitcher from the table and slowly drizzle out some syrup onto her pancakes.

"Well, it's your own fault," Sam says unsympathetically. "Eat up fast. We have to make a stop back at the room to figure out some sort of disguise that'll get us into the hospital to see Kristen."

"And you think _I'm _bossier than you?" Delia clucks her tongue. "Control freak." Sam scowls as Dee happily stabs a piece of pancake, takes a bite, and promptly winces.

"What?"

"It's _cold,_" Delia mutters sullenly. "And burnt! Man. Nothing says 'go to hell' like an overcooked, under-heated pancake, you know what I'm saying?"

--

"I don't understand," Mrs. Montero says tearfully. "Is there something else wrong with Kristen?"

"Mrs. Montero," Sam says gently, "this is a psychiatric analysis. We're just looking to see if there's anything else we can do."

"But she's gone through this a million times."

"We're specialists," Delia says, smiling endearingly. "We've been called in on a consult. No guarantees, but we think we might be able to help your daughter." Mrs. Montero stares from one of them to the other, then, without a word, nods once.

"She's awake," the wan-looking woman offers softly. "But she won't talk."

"Not a problem," Sam assures her. "With luck, this shouldn't take too long. Please, wait outside."

"What could have happened to her?" the woman murmurs fretfully. "I just don't understand." Delia lays a comforting arm across the woman's shoulders, smiles sadly.

"Neither do I, Mrs. Montero, but I promise you, I'll try to fix it," she says softly. "My partner and I will do all we can."

"Thank you." The woman bows her head, blinking back tears. Sam grins a little at Delia, then nods to the door. Quietly, they take their leave, slipping inside the hospital room and taking in the surroundings.

The room holds a single twin-bed, several beeping machines, translucent bags of IV fluid, and a horribly emaciated shell of a girl, staring listlessly off into space.

"Kristen?" Sam asks softly. "Hi. I'm Sam. We're here to help, okay?"

No response, not even any indication the girl realizes they're there.

"Kristen," Delia tries. "We know. About the curse. About…about Selena." Sam frowns over at her, eyes questioning, but stops almost immediately when Kristen turns her head, a flicker of surprise in her half-closed eyes.

"We know you don't feel like talking," Sam says softly. "You're very sick, and we understand. But…we want to break the curse. It's—it's been cast on my brother, too." He starts to hold out the pen and paper, is about to ask her if she'd mind writing something—anything—down for them when Kristen's eyes flicker to Delia, and very softly she whispers, in a voice hoarse from disuse,

"You're one of them." For a moment, both Sam and Delia are so surprised, they simply stare at her before Delia asks,

"Who?"

"The Others," the girl says softly.

Sam and Delia stare some more.

"No," Kristen whispers, a dark, haunted look creeping across her face. "You're not real. Not here."

"No, I guess I'm not," Delia agrees. "But we really _are _trying to help you. I want to go home, you know."

"Kristen, why haven't you been talking?" Sam asks. "Why are you letting yourself…"

"Die?" Kristen rasps, then coughs harshly. "They think I'm insane…I don't blame them. But I can't break it, I don't know how. I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Is it the witch?" Delia asks, frowning. "Is she the one who's doing this?"

"It's not her," Kristen manages. "It's the curse."

"She cast the curse," Sam says. "That means she's to blame."

"No." Kristen coughs again, this time weaker. "The curse was never supposed to be like this. It's not her fault." Her breath comes in shallow gasps now, sweat beads on her forehead. "_Don't drink the water,_" she murmurs suddenly. "_Set the words on fire." _

"Sam," Delia whispers, her eyes narrowed at Kristen, "she's delusional."

"No I'm not," Kristen slurs.

"Oh God." Sam presses a hand to her forehead. "Holy—she's burning up!" He jumps to his feet, rushes to the door.

"The things I saw." Kristen's voice is even more unintelligible, deep, almost as if she were hypnotized . "I could have been different. I was supposed to be. Now the curse will claim the most important thing to me."

Even though Sam is yelling for a doctor and Delia can hear footsteps, she leans down and whispers,

"What?"

"_Life," _Kristen breathes, and then her eyes roll back into her head and the heart monitor goes haywire.

--

"We have to do something, Sammy," Delia insists on the ride back to the motel. "That poor kid almost died."

"I know." Sam's knuckles are almost white as he grips the steering wheel.

"This could happen to me," Delia whispers. "To the Dean here, when he gets back."

"I _know._"

"What the hell is going on?" Delia asks, all panic, all worry. "This isn't a routine type of curse, Sam!"

"I'm figuring that out fine on my own, thanks." Sam's voice rises a little, his hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. "I don't get this at all, Delia."

"Man, I wish I could stay here for more than one day," Delia mutters, sliding down in the seat, arms folded across her stomach. "I really don't like the idea of leaving you here to deal with this alone." Sam's eyes dart to her.

"What about your Sam?"

"She'd be fine," Delia says, though it doesn't come out quite as confident as she would like. "But anyways, I guess I have no say in the matter, huh?"

"No, I guess not," Sam agrees with a sigh.

They get to the motel, head back to the room, and then Sam hits the internet and Delia hits Dad's journal, looking for something, _anything _that will give them a way to break the curse. Sam's already done research and Selena was burned at the stake—and, here's the weird part, _salted _too. Her spirit should definitely not be hanging around, and the fact that it is really bothers them both.

Like, a lot.

More research, no results, and they're both angry and anxious, and surprisingly it makes the hours pass by quicker.

They eat lunch at some point, but both are too tired for dinner.

"So," Sam says at long last, when he's propped up in bed, looking worn out, eyes glazed over from reading from the computer all day, "I gotta ask you a question."

"Sure." Delia's back in her pajamas, and back in the bed. At this point, she's just staring up at the ceiling, wishing she didn't have to sleep so she could find a way to help the Dean here, help the kid at the hospital.

"You're pretty much like the Dean I know here," Sam says, "except for one thing. You…you don't hold back on the emotional stuff, do you?"

"Comes from being a girl, I guess," Delia muses after a moment. "I'm a heart-on-my-sleeve kinda gal."

"That's not quite it, though." Sam's voice's is puzzled. "Dean is like, _unusually _adverse to sharing feelings. It's hard to get him to even admit he's in pain when there's blood soaking his entire shirt or something."

"Hm." Dee shrugs, shaking her head. "I don't know. I just…it's never really bothered me. I don't open up to strangers easy, but Dad always raised me to not be afraid to feel. Said it would destroy me if I kept hunting and kept everything bottled up."

"What?" Sam looks up from the laptop, squints at Delia. "Dad said that?"

"Sure," Delia says. "He was big on touchy-feely stuff, ya know?"

"John Winchester?" Sam snorts. "Very funny, Delia."

"John?" Now Delia's the one who's frowning. "His name was Michael."

"_Michael?_" Sam appears to be at a complete loss at this point. "What the hell?"

"Beats me." At this point, Delia has become to tired to care. "Maybe it's some weird part of the curse."

"And Mom's name was Mary, right?" Sam asks desperately. "_Right?_"

"Jane," Delia yawns, now rolling over onto her side.

"I hate this curse," Sam decides, flipping the laptop closed. "With a passion."

Delia chuckles.

"Good night, Sammy. Do me a favor and don't scare the crap out of the other versions of me who come popping up, got it?"

"I'll try not to."

"'Do, or not do,'" Delia quotes sleepily. "There is no try.'"

"Yeah, yeah. Go to bed, Yoda."

Delia lifts her head with some difficulty and manages, in between yawns to look pointedly at Sam and say,

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam responds, and grins a bit. "Thanks for your help today, Dee. Seriously, it meant a lot."

"Good luck with breaking the curse," Delia sighs as she reaches over to turn off the light. "And dude. _Enough_ with the chick-flick moments."

Sam laughs appreciatively, and she knows that by being even more of a smart-ass than usual she's doing a good thing for this little brother of hers, the one that exists only here. It makes him feel like his brother's still there, somewhere, like he hasn't lost him yet.

_Well, anyways, _Delia thinks as she drifts off to sleep, _that's what big sisters are for. _

_When she walks back to the bar, fighting her way through the crowds, Zach is gone and Sam is standing there with the drinks, looking sheepish._

"_Dee," she says at once, "I'm sorry."_

"_No, you're not," Delia sighs. "You're right. That's what pisses me off so much."_

"_It's just…I shouldn't have thrown that thing about Dad at you like I did," Sam says softly, staring down at her feet. "That wasn't fair."_

"_Maybe not." Delia eyes her abashed little sister, then shrugs. "Okay, you're right again. It wasn't, and I'm still kinda pissed about it."_

"_I don't blame you." Sammy sighs, staring down at her hands. "I just…I worry about you. I don't want you to end up hurt or…"_

"_I can shoot a moving target blindfolded," Dee cuts in. "I know three different ways to exorcise a demon, I dig up graves almost weekly, and I have two different knives on me and usually one gun at all times. You think I can't protect myself from some pervert?"_

"_It's stupid, I know," Sam says softly. "I don't mean to underestimate you. It just feels like you're getting yourself in too deep."_

"_I know my limits. I'm just trying to keep you well-rested and well-fed, Sammy-girl." Dee gives her sister an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, okay? I'll ease up a little on the flirting—it just tends to make it easier to convince them I don't know jack-shit." Sam smiles a little and Delia glances around. "Where'd Zach go?"_

"_I finished your pool game," Sam explains sheepishly. "And then once he'd paid up, I told him to get lost."_

"_Aw, he wasn't so bad," Delia chuckles, but grins anyways._

"_Well, he wasn't good enough for you." Sam smiles back. "I don't care if you weren't going to do anything with him; he was still a loser."_

"_What a good little sister you are," Delia declares, cuffing Sam on the back of the head. "Always lookin' out for my well-being and stuff."_

"_Hey," Sam says, and her smile widens still, "it's what sisters are for, after all." _


End file.
